


Crossing Knives

by MissVioletHunter



Category: British Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Cooking, F/M, Masterchef US, Tom Hiddleston AU, chef tom hiddleston, restaurant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2018-03-29 21:42:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3911710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissVioletHunter/pseuds/MissVioletHunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Hiddleston is the brilliant executive chef of Band of Brothers, a London restaurant with a Michelin star. He also has a reputation for being arrogant, cocky and difficult, and his constant tantrums are making the business suffer.<br/>Hallie Harrison is a former home cook, known for her big and innovative flavours, who has just won Masterchef US. Her triumph has brought her some fame, a bit of money, and the publication of her own cookbook. After a short perfecting course at a prestigious culinary school, she feels ready to go back to her home country and play in the big leagues.<br/>Luke Windsor is a restaurateur who is tired of constantly looking for new sous-chefs because his business partner (and, nevertheless, friend) Tom keeps making them quit. In a desperate move to save his restaurant, Luke offers Hallie a job as a sous-chef, and also the opportunity to invest in Band of Brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amuse-Bouche, California Style

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my new Tom story, Crossing Knives. Cooking shows are one of my guilty pleasures, and I had this idea of setting a fanfiction story in the culinary world, because as far as I know nobody has written an AU Chef!Tom yet.  
> Those of you who’ve suffered my writing before know that I’m not particularly fast. I’m also a bit worried, because Theology for Beginners was very well received, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to make this one as good as it sounds in my head. But I promise to do my best with this story, and I’ll keep the updates as steady as I can.  
> You can find pictures of the characters' face claims, their homes, and some additional content in my tumblr blog: http://missviolethunterwrites.tumblr.com/

**Chapter 1: Amuse-Bouche, California Style**

"Luke! Why aren't you here, mate? You're missing the party of the century!"

Luke Windsor recoiled a little from the avalanche of sounds coming from his phone. First, his friend's voice on the other side of the line was unnaturally shrill and harsh, maybe because he was trying to make himself heard above all the noise. There were other voices around, mostly women's voices... competing for his attention, no doubt. And then, to complete the assault to his ears, a background tapestry of loud electronic music, not exactly Luke's favorite.

He looked around him, still feeling a bit groggy. He had been enjoying a quiet evening in the peace and calm of his elegant Mayfair flat, until... Realizing that he had fallen asleep on the sofa, and that his neck was suffering from it, he went back to the conversation with a groan.

"Tom, it's almost two in the morning, so I think the relevant question would be why are _you_ partying on a Monday. We run a restaurant together, remember?"

"Killjoy!" shouted another voice; this time a feminine, whiny one.

"Tom, I'm not in the mood to talk to your little friends tonight. I'm not even in the mood to talk to you, considering that I've been here working all evening, going through a pile of resumés to try and find you a new sous-chef."

"Take a break, man! Look, we're at the Café de Paris. Get a cab and come here, this place is insane!"

Luke took a sip from his mug of cold coffee. "Exactly how drunk are you this time?"

"Quite a lot", was the answer, accompanied by Tom's unmistakable laugh. "But it's not the same if you're not partying with me, mate. I miss my wingman."

"Are you trying to make me believe that you haven't hooked up with some girl tonight? Not even one of the party animals I'm hearing around you? You must be losing your touch."

Tom's answer came in a whisper. "Her name is Becca, and she's an absolute bore. But she's a natural redhead, she's pretty... and her boobs aren't fake."

"Ah. Sounds like you've finally found the mother of my future godchildren. Give my regards to the excellently endowed Becca and don't forget to send me an invite to the wedding, please. And, after that, try to get your arse home, because you have to work tomorrow!" Luke hung up his phone, feeling the start of a headache behind his eyes.

* * *

Back at the exclusive Soho club, Tom and the ginger haired girl sat down at the bar for another round of vodka shooters. She was even more wasted than him, but that didn't keep her from chattering all the time. It had been fun at the start of the night, when she had recognized him and piled compliment over compliment, but now she was at the _'do you know this chef and that?'_ phase. Of course, she only had heard of the TV celebrity chefs, the ones from the contests and the cooking shows, and Tom hated those with a passion. To him, TV personalities were not real chefs; they were only there for the show and not for the food. The girl in front of him wasn't exactly a gourmet either; it was clear that her culinary tastes didn't go beyond bangers and mash, and she only cared about the temporary status that came from being seen in public with a famous man.

Trying to deflect Becca's clumsy attempts at conversation, he grabbed his phone again.

_'Sorry about before, pal. I'll let you work. Go get me the best sous-chef out there. - TH'_

_'I got you four on the last seven months. You keep making them quit. - LW'_

_'I promise I will behave with the next one... just hire someone who can cook. - TH'_

_'Bugger off. With love... but bugger off. - LW'_

* * *

Luke let out a pained sigh, because he knew that nights like that were usually the prelude of a bitter argument with his business partner (and, nevertheless, friend) the following day. He had definitely lost the will to sleep. He didn't want to go back to the staff selection process either: there were several good candidates, solid cooks with great resumés… but he knew none of them would endure Tom's lack of manners and cocky personality for more than a few weeks. He would have to settle with someone with little experience, fresh from culinary school, and that wouldn't help the restaurant's dwindling finances. Band of Brothers had opened only two years before. It was a small restaurant in the heart of Chelsea that had managed to get a Michelin star almost immediately, but things hadn't been going so well for the last months.

There was an old copy of Food & Wine magazine on the table, with a picture of Tom on the cover. There were also a couple of gossip tabloids, fresh from the press, showing Tom in what had become his natural state. This time the cover showed him exiting a club late at night, with his sunglasses on, a cigarette between his lips, and a girl on each arm. The headline 'Take a peek into Chef Hiddleston's wild nights', printed in gaudy yellow letters, left it very clear that Tom was becoming more famous for picking up socialites and starlettes than for his otherwise excellent food.

A quick browsing through several programs on the TV took him to an American channel, one that right in that moment was showing the finale of its star cooking show. Luke let out a bitter laugh, thinking how ironic it was that, after battling with the restaurant's finances all day, he now was choosing to spend his night watching other people cook. He couldn't help it: he was a restaurateur, not a chef, but he had always been fascinated by the culinary world. This show in particular was mildly interesting, even funny at times, full of aspiring home cooks and grumpy judges; every now and then he could catch sight of a glimpse of authentic raw talent.

He turned up the volume just when Gordon Ramsey, the other two judges, and the studio audience, started chanting a countdown.

_"Four... three... two... one! Stop cooking!"_

After the complimentary round of applause, the two finalists, a man and a woman, approached the judges' table with their desserts. They were as different in appearance as in their cooking style: the first finalist, Gene Cohen, was a born and bred New Yorker; technical and refined, he loved experimenting with molecular gastronomy, always relying on surprising twists and special ingredients. His thin, elegant fingers placed the dish in front of the judges with exquisite care.

"Explain your dessert, please", asked Ramsey, clearly intrigued by the complex look of the dish.

"I have an Angel cake with tamarind gelée, mango foam and curried coconut ice cream."

The dessert was a magnificent sight, and the judges let the cameraman take a close up on the beautiful palette of warm orange tones that adorned the plate. The presentation was followed by the usual round of praise from the three judges, and one of them – the pastry chef, or course – criticized one or two minor details. There was always someone who mentioned some issues with every dish, to make it look that all of the finalists had the same chances of winning.

Now it was time for contestant number two. Luke had been following her progress on the show, mostly because this finalist was actually British, although she had been raised in California. It made him marginally proud to see a Brit in the final of an American contest, and it was clear that the girl could cook really well.

"Hallie, what delicacy do you have for us tonight?" asked Chef Ramsey, who also seemed quite proud of his countrywoman making it so far into the competition.

"Rose vanilla macarons filled with basil infused buttercream, and accompanied by an almond raspberry pannacotta."

It looked like a work of art, a symphony of pinks decorated with delicate flower petals. The texture of the pannacotta was deemed perfect by the three judges. The flavor of the macarons, enthusiastically praised, especially by the pastry chef judge. She also reminded his colleagues (and the audience) of how difficult it was to work with rose extract because it tended to taste like burnt sugar if it wasn't handled correctly. When she received the highest compliment someone could get in that show, _'This is really you on a plate'_ , the blonde woman in front of the judges beamed. Hallie Harrison had been a favorite of the audience from the start, with her warm smile and her bold flavors, and her cheeks turned a darker shade of pink when the audience erupted in a spontaneous wave of applause.

Luke turned down the sound while the judges deliberated. He knew how these things went, and of course he was aware that the real deliberation wouldn't take place in front of the cameras. He didn't look at the telly again until the moment of the final reveal, when Gordon Ramsey stood with a megawatt smile plastered on his face and the contest award in his hands.

"One of the two people standing before me tonight will receive a hundred thousand dollars, the opportunity to publish their own cookbook, and of course this fantastic trophy. And that person is..." he stopped for the usual couple of seconds of suspense, took a breath and showed his best TV smile again. "Congratulations... Hallie!"

And then there was the mandatory mix of confetti and tears, incoherent words from the winner and politely disappointed smiles from the runner up. The audience clapped and cheered as if they were the ones who would walk away with the money. Luke saw a middle aged woman, probably Hallie's mother, run to the stage and hug the overjoyed winner. Someone opened a bottle of champagne; each one of the judges and contestants got a full glass, and a long round of hugs from several people.

"Hallie, I would offer you a job on one of my restaurants right now if you wanted it", interrupted chef Ramsey, always eager to have the final word. "It was a very close final, but you have a lot of talent and you cook like an angel. However, a little bird told me you want to go back to the motherland, right?"

"Yes, chef. I promised myself that if I won I'd go back to London and look for work there. I haven't been to England since I was eight... and I think it's time for me to expand my horizons", she answered, wiping a furtive tear from her eye.

"Get ready, England, because Hallie Harrison is going to take the country by storm!" Gordon laughed.

Luke didn't hear him laugh. He didn't hear anything at all after the word _London_ , the word that made him raise his head like a hound and scramble in the dark for his laptop. He wrote a hurried email to Shirley, his secretary, hoping she would see it first thing in the morning; finishing the dregs of his coffee, he closed the laptop and turned off the TV. But before he could leave for the bedroom, the loud tone of his mobile phone startled him.

"Hey, boss! What's the emergency?"

"Shirley? Is there a full moon tonight or something? Why is the whole city awake?"

"I was watching the American Masterchef finale! Did you see it? The British girl won!"

"That's exactly why I wrote to you. I want you to contact the studio first thing tomorrow, and find a way to make that Hallie talk to us. Apparently she dreams of working as a chef in London, and I'd love to make her dreams come true before anybody else does."

Even though he wasn't on speaker, Luke could hear Shirley let out a loud and excited squeal. "That's going to be great publicity for the restaurant! Oh, and I'm dying to taste her cooking, too!"

"I expect everybody else will be as enthusiastic as you. This could be really good for the business... especially if, in addition to working with us, she wants to invest a part of her prize in Band of Brothers. But it has to be done soon, or someone will make her a better offer."

"Will Chef Tom be ok with it, boss? You know how cranky he gets every time he sees a chef from the telly."

"Don't you worry about that. Just get me Miss Harrison on the phone tomorrow as soon as she's available, and I'll take care of Tom. He may be a reckless sod, but he's not stupid when it comes to the restaurant. I'll make him see reason."

"As long as it's you who has to deal with our diva and not me, I'm fine. Night, boss!"

The now hopeful restaurateur let out a sigh and smiled. Hallie Harrison. The golden girl, the wonder girl. It would be great if he could finish the deal before she was snatched by some other restaurant owner... and before she arrived in England, bought the Daily Mail and learned about Tom's exploits. Oh, he was doing it for the good of the business, of course. But he also got some degree of pleasure from the idea of imagining his friend having to work with the kind of celebrity cook he detested. Grabbing the blanket from the sofa in one hand and his phone in the other, he got ready to retreat to his bedroom, but he couldn't help teasing Tom a little before going to sleep.

_'After all I may have to thank you for waking me up. I have good news on the sous chef front. - LW'_

_'Brilliant! Where did you find one at this hour? - TH'_

_'In America, of all places. She comes recommended by three great chefs. - LW'_

_'Nice work, mate! I knew you could find me someone. - TH'_

_'I still need to interview her in person. But, with a bit of luck, our new sous chef will be in your kitchen really soon. Goodnight - LW'_

Luke didn't wait for Tom's answer, because he wasn't going to give him any details until the deal had been arranged. He also omitted the part where he hoped to get Hallie to invest in Band of Brothers. His working partner owned only a quarter of the restaurant, and if Miss Harrison came into the business she would have a saying in many important decisions. But in the end what really mattered to Tom was the food, and according to the judges his future new chef cooked like an angel.

Dragging his feet on the luxurious grey carpet he went to his room, slipped into his bed and slept better than he had in several weeks. He finally was a man with a plan... And what could possibly go wrong with it?


	2. Gourmet Appetizers and Al Fresco Dining

It was the end of a busy evening at the small but modern kitchen of Band of Brothers. Dinner service was almost over, which meant that the busiest person in the building was Connor, the pastry chef. He assembled with exquisite care the last three desserts of the night, with the assistance of one of the cooks. A moment later, two sets of pistachio financiers and one delicious looking butterscotch pudding were ready to go, and the young man made a sign for the servers to take away the plates.

"You really outdid yourself today, my boy. They look so pretty that the eaters are going to be too gobsmacked to eat them!" said Birdie, the woman who had been helping him with the dessert course. After more than thirty years working as a line cook in several restaurants, she was an expert at her job, despite never having set foot in a culinary school. Her permanent smile and cheerful voice, in her trademark Eastern European accent, had helped her become the most beloved member of the restaurant's staff. Not even Chef Tom on his bad days (of which he had been having quite a lot lately) dared to utter a bad word when Birdie was in the kitchen.

"Birdie, love, you've helped me with these a hundred times... I'm sure I could leave any moment and you'd be able to make all the desserts without any help", answered Connor, undoing the collar of his chef coat with a tired smile. "But I'm glad we're finished. Tom has been especially grouchy today, I'll be glad to leave before he gets out of Luke's office. I wonder what are they talking about... I swear I heard them shouting at each other a minute ago."

"Not grouchy, my boy... hungover. I bet that chap has been partying again, and Mr. Windsor is telling him off." Birdie sighed, with her eyes fixed on her boss's office door. "I wonder how he can cook like that after getting pissed every night."

Even though they were away from the peering eyes and ears of the restaurant personnel, Tom was having a very hard time keeping his voice low. He threw a portfolio on Luke's desk, almost knocking out a table lamp in the process. "How could you do this without consulting me first? You're supposed to be my friend!"

Luke rubbed his temples, looked at his business partner, and started explaining to him the same thing he had explained three or four times in the last ten minutes. "Look, Tom, it's nothing definitive. Just a job offer, with the condition that she has to come here and cook a trial meal for us, to make sure that her cooking style and techniques match the standards of Band of Brothers or any other fine dining restaurant. I would have done the same with any other chef–"

"That model from the telly is not a chef. If I didn't know you better I'd think you're hiring her because she's hot."

"At the risk of sounding superficial, I must admit that her image has played a part in my decision", admitted Luke, not even a bit embarrassed. "But it's not just her looks, Tom, it's everything else."

"What else can it be? And when did you suddenly start liking women?"

Giving a venomous look to his friend, Luke rummaged around in his suitcase, taking out an American issue of Food & Wine magazine, with Hallie on the cover. "I'm in charge of the public relations in this business, Tom. Now, please, look at this woman for a moment and tell me she's not a PR dream. I've been watching Masterchef reruns all week: She's never had a bad word with any of the other contestants; always cheerful, always calm, consistent in her cooking... And she clearly knows how to cook, even if she'll need a bit of guidance at first. On top of all that, she looks like the typical American girl-next-door. But here comes the twist, she's British on her mother's side! We couldn't ask for better publicity even if we commissioned the perfect chef from a cloning lab."

"Not. A. Chef." Tom snatched the magazine from Luke's hands and leafed through it. There was a picture of Hallie during a photoshoot, in front of a cutting board full of vegetables. She wasn't wearing her chef coat, and Tom realized that what he had mistaken for smooth creamy skin was in fact covered in dozens of tiny freckles... He closed the magazine and put it away, trying to convince himself that there was something sinister in the girl's blue eyes and wide smile. "All these pictures are telling me is that she knows the proper way to hold a lettuce, nothing else. We'll see about the cooking. And why does she have to smile all the time?"

"I'm going to take a wild guess there and say that she's happy. You know, people are allowed to be happy, Tom, even if you choose not to be." Luke stood up from his desk and put a placating hand on his friend's shoulder. "Remember that we have the Taste of London Festival next Sunday, and I need you awake and alert, and functioning at your best level. By the way, you still haven't told me what you want to cook for the festival, and Birdie has to do the shopping tomorrow."

"And why is she making us wait two whole weeks?" insisted Tom, still refusing to let the matter go. "Is Her Majesty the Queen of California too busy to haul her arse here and cook a simple meal?"

"She's finishing a course at the Culinary Institute of America, you duffer. Getting ready for her potential new job, ready to come here and show us what she can do in a kitchen."

Tom brushed his friend's hand away. "I want no part in this, Luke. You're the majority partner and I can't forbid you to hire her, but I won't go to that tasting. The responsibility will fall entirely on you. And if she comes to my kitchen, we'll work on different dishes and on separate stations all the time. That's the only way it's going to work."

"Do you call that _working_ , Tom? We have a kitchen the size of a living room. There's no way that can work without alienating the other cooks, the servers... and, of course, all the customers!"

"Those are my terms, Luke, take them or leave them. If that Malibu Barbie comes to my restaurant, she'll have to accept them."

"Santa Rosa."

"What?"

"Santa Rosa, Tom, not Malibu. I see you haven't read the resumé I sent you."

"I don't need a resumé to spot a poser", he answered, grabbing his leather jacket from the back of a chair. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date."

"Let me guess: that _classy_ Ukrainian lingerie model from last week?" Luke raised an eyebrow. "The one who wanted a permanent free table at Band of Brothers? I wonder until what hour she'll keep you awake."

"Ylenia? Heavens, no. I got bored of her and her antics. And stop preaching, Mother Hen... I'll send you the menu for the festival first thing tomorrow. You know how good I am at improvising."

"Just promise me you'll get some sleep this week. I need you in your best shape for the showcase. Remember who has the stand right across from ours... you wouldn't want to embarrass yourself in front of Harri–"

"Don't say that name in front of me", Tom practically growled. "Even if I had both hands tied behind my back, I'd still cook better than that... that leech."

"That would be an amazing publicity stunt! See if you can borrow a pair of handcuffs from your date tonight, and start training in cooking without hands."

His friend's comment finally managed to raise a laugh from Tom. He went out the back door of the restaurant and paced, slowly, down the alley.

* * *

The main building of the Culinary Institute of America (California branch) was a majestic castle-like property in the middle of the Napa valley. Its stone walls gleamed in the yellow sunlight of the last hours of the day. Dozens of people poured out of the main door, with their heavily stained chef coats as evidence of a long day of hard work. Many of them had taken off their trademark garment –black for the teachers, white for the students– and were discussing their plans for the summer in loud and excited voices. Several courses and seminars had finished that day, and there was a lot of talk about internships, new jobs... and, of course, summer holidays.

In one of the groups of people stood Hallie, saying her goodbyes to the classmates who had shared with her a very intense month of braising, sautéeing, baking, and a multitude of other techniques.

"Send us a postcard from London!" urged Anne, an Asian girl who was famous among the group for her amazing fresh pasta recipes.

"A dozen postcards if I can, of course, Anne."

"Don't leave, superstar! Those Brits won't appreciate your cooking", interrupted a young man. "You're worth much more than some nasty fish and chips!"

"Thank you, Stephen, but I made up my mind weeks ago. My Mum had wanted to go back to England since my Dad died, and now..." she slapped her forehead. "Oh, gosh, Mum! I told her I'd call as soon as the classes were over... Sorry, guys, I have to run. But I promise I'll write!"

Hallie's car was parked right across the CIA building, and she dialed her mother's number before starting the engine.

"Hallie, sweetheart! Did you have fun on your last day?"

"Oh, lots! I'm going to drive home now, there's not a lot of traffic at this hour, so I think I'll be home in time for dinner."

"That's lovely, dear. I was just going over your packing list and putting aside a few things you were about to forget. I also went to the vet to pick up all the health certificates... our little furry pirate won't have any problems going through immigration now."

"Thank you so much, Mum, that's a relief", she said with a sigh. "I just don't know what I'm going to do in London until you arrive with Max. I haven't lived alone since... well, since college. But that was a dorm, so I guess it doesn't count. I really hope I can fit all the things in the new apartment– no, not apartment. Our new flat. I really need to start talking like the Brit I am!"

"Don't you worry about that, sweetheart. You just have to hop to London, impress that Mr. Windsor with your cooking talent, and secure the job. And don't stress yourself about the flat, either. We're going to live in a wonderful estate, in a good part of the city, and the pictures of the flat you chose look fantastic. You've worked a lot for this, Hallie dear. You're allowed to enjoy a few weeks of fun in London before your overbearing mother arrives and starts imposing on you again." The voice on the other side of the line faded away for a second. "You know, I've seen there's a lovely pub in the estate: don't forget to take a look at it, maybe you'll meet some handsome neighbour!"

"I won't have a lot of time for that once I start working, Mum!" Hallie tried her best to sound scandalized between laughs. "Oh, is Max asleep? I have a little surprise for him in my purse."

"He's out like a candle, honey. But I'm sure he'll wake up as soon as he hears you come through the door, you know he always does. Drive safely!"

Lorraine Harrison put the phone back on the table and looked around her, at the more or less organized chaos of boxes, bags and cases that occupied the entirety of her living room. There were two open suitcases on the sofa, and an orange tabby cat was napping on top of one of them. She looked forward to moving, sometimes even more than her daughter. No matter how much she loved Santa Rosa, London had been the place where she had spent her youth, met her husband, and had her two children. After two decades of living in a little lazy town, she still was an East End girl at heart. And she knew Hallie had been offered an incredible chance to start a career full of opportunities, in a city she was going to love.

She then looked out of the window, to the well-tended grass in her front lawn... and beyond that, to the vineyards her late husband had loved so much. Shaking her head, she went back to packing, smiling at the now awake orange cat. "I just hope that my little girl finds more than a job there. It's not good for a young person to be alone, and she's been on her own for too long."

"Meow", was the predictable response.

"And what do _you_ know?" she laughed. "You're just a cat."

* * *

The reputation of British food, while unfounded, has moved between simply mediocre and downright catastrophic for a long time. On this particular day, the famous Regent's Park in London was the place chosen by a group of chefs to prove, without any doubt, that Brits could cook extraordinarily well.

The Taste of London Festival was not a small event. More than forty restaurant stands, along with a dozen other exhibitors, were spread all across the Park, while a crowd of hungry and excited foodies observed every movement of the knives, every garnish and decoration on the plates. Some of them were looking for their favorites, checking the stands on the map; but most of the people at the Festival were eager to try a little bit of everything, to discover new flavors, new techniques... and to take a look at some famous chefs, of course.

By the side of one of the stands Luke Windsor paced to and fro, with his ear practically glued to his phone. Officially, he was there as a Band of Brothers representative, to do a bit of public relations; he also had a meeting with a couple of wine distributors from Hampshire. However, he didn't even try to hide that his main purpose was to keep an eye on Tom... and also on the chef who manned the stand right across theirs, where a little crowd had already started to gather.

In a place like London, where dozens of new restaurants opened and closed with alarming regularity, it was hard to be truly original or different. Everything had been done: pop-up restaurants that lasted only for a week, floating bars on the Thames, micro-restaurants with two tables that occupied just a tiny room in a flat... However, in the middle of all that chaos, someone had managed to hit the bullseye on the first try, and that someone was Harrington Craig.

Nothing in his background or breeding should have brought him into a kitchen, not even close to one. The fourth child and only son of a baron (which in theory entitled him to be addressed as 'the Honourable Harrington Craig'), he surprised everyone by choosing a career in the culinary arts. As a protégé of the legendary Alain Ducasse, he had been the executive chef of Ducasse's restaurant at the Dorchester for years. And then he had abandoned his comfortable position to open his own place, a brand new restaurant called Aeon... in the middle of Chelsea, right across the street from Band of Brothers.

According to a handful of well-intentioned culinary critics, Aeon had everything in its favor to become a spectacular failure: a relatively new chef with no experience as a restaurateur, a menu based on molecular gastronomy (with a French background, but who cared about the bloody French anymore?), and a decoration that would have been more appropriate for the bridge of a spaceship. However, honoring the century-long tradition of disproving the critics' opinion, Aeon had taken the culinary world by storm. The fact that it had been awarded a Michelin star just a few months after its opening had managed to send the critics crawling back to their holes. The mix of avant-garde cooking and French classics was praised as a genius move, and the restaurant was always booked for weeks in advance. All of London had been won by Harrington and his minimalist sophistication... all of London, of course, except Chef Tom Hiddleston.

In his own stand, Tom was putting the finishing touches on a spectacular array of bite-sized treats. Beside him, Birdie, the line cook from Band of Brothers, helped with the chopping and peeling. It had been Luke's idea to bring her to the Festival, because the older, motherly woman was the only member of Tom's staff that could call him out on his antics without much effort. Fortunately for Luke's nerves, Tom seemed quite calm, even after learning that he would have to work only a few yards away from his bitter rival. Every ten minutes or so, he lifted his gaze from the food and looked beyond the group of customers, fixing his eyes on Harrington Craig with a somber expression.

Luke himself had some difficulty tearing his eyes from Craig, even if he wasn't his type. The man moved with the elegance of a dancer and the poise he had inherited from his 'old money' upbringing, perfected by his Oxford education. It wasn't a surprise that the group of people surrounding his stand was mostly comprised of women, hoping to grab a bite (or maybe something more) from the provisional kitchen of the recently divorced chef. Or course, there was no shortage of young ladies at the Band of Brothers stand, either; some of them had walked from one stand to the other several times, probably making comparisons... and not only of the food.

Observing Tom's cooking technique was an entirely different experience, like watching a professional athlete. He wielded the razor sharp knife with quick and organic movements that seemed deceitfully easy: more than handling the product, it was as if his long fingers were caressing it. His brow was slightly furrowed, which gave him an air of intense concentration. He had rolled up the sleeves of his chef coat, like he always did at the restaurant, showing his heavily tattooed arms. From the multicolor mix of culinary themed motifs that adorned his skin, his most famous tattoo was the simplest one: a small knife and fork on the back of his left hand. It moved with him, performing an almost hypnotic dance as he placed a couple of delicate microgreens on top of a shrimp skewer with a creamy lemongrass sauce.

With a wink, he handed one of the finished dishes to an elegantly dressed lady in the first row, and the woman practically swooned as soon as the food touched her lips.

It was as if some kind of magnetic wave had spread among the crowd. Soon there was a very long line of hungry customers who waited, anxious, for a sip of minty watermelon gazpacho, a bite of crunchy scallop topped with salmon caviar, a taste of mini lamb chops with jalapeño jelly. Anything that came from Tom's hands was instantly devoured, and the customers' comments ranged from enthusiastic to downright passionate.

Only four hours later, with the festival about to close for the day, an exhausted Tom could finally take a break while Birdie cleaned and reorganized the stand. Slipping behind the line of white tents, he lit up a cigarette and rubbed his eyes with a tired hand.

"Your food looked delicious today, Hiddleston. Congratulations."

The cigarette trembled between Tom's lips. "Craig, I've already had to endure your face in front of me for several hours today. At least have the decency to get out of my sight and let me have a smoke in peace."

Harrington Craig answered with an amused smile. "You really must watch those manners, Tom. No wonder you're having problems with your personnel if you treat people like that."

"From what I've heard, I'm not the only one without a sous chef. This is a very small world, didn't you think I'd know that yours quit too?"

"He left to open his own restaurant, Tom. In your case, every person who works directly under you seems to develop a mysterious illness that makes them want to run out of your kitchen like scalded cats. Anyway, I've already made someone else an offer. Maybe you've heard of her... her name is Hallie Harrison. You know, the Masterchef winner?" He straightened the starched collar of his pristine chef coat. "Oh, but I forgot you don't care about television chefs. It's a real pity, Tom; that girl has the potential to be a better chef than any of us."

Tom didn't even look back at Harrington. The cigarette stub fell on the grass, still burning, and he stomped on it before walking away from the exhibition area.

On the other side of the festival, Luke was finally relaxing, sipping some chilled Blanc de Blanc. He had finished his second glass of the sparkling wine when he spotted his friend, looking a bit more feverish than usual.

"Finally! I've been looking for you everywhere. Where are we on the Hallie front?"

"I made her an offer. She accepted. Then you threw a tantrum like a five year old, and now I'm not sure what to do anymore", Luke summed up, making a superhuman effort not to roll his eyes.

"Hire her."

After so many years as Tom's friend, Luke was completely used to his mood changes, so his only sign of shock was a discreet cough. "Please tell me you didn't just get drunk in the middle of a showcase like you did last spring."

Tom grabbed his friend's arm and practically dragged him behind a tree, away from prying ears. "Harrington Craig wants Malibu Barbie for his restaurant. That nob already got away with my girlfriend, and I'll be damned if I let him do the same with my sous chef."

Another cough. "Well, technically she's not your sous chef yet, Tom..."

"I don't care how well she cooks, I don't even care if she burns water. Just persuade her to work for me as soon as she sets foot in England."

"She'll be working _with_ you, Tom, not for you. And you must promise to be at least civil–"

"I'll be a perfect fucking gentleman."

"Sometimes I wonder how you kiss your Mum with that mouth. And where have your Eton manners gone."

"You were always the one with the impeccable manners, mate. That's why you're in charge of PR and I only do the cooking." Tom flashed his friend a crooked smile while he lit another cigarette. "Do we have a deal? Will you speak to the girl?"

"I will even pick her up from the airport, in case the evil overlord Harrington Craig is there to kidnap her. But I want your word that you won't pick fights with her, at least for the first few months."

"Got it. No fighting with Malibu Barbie."

"Santa Rosa. And no calling her that either, not even behind her back."

Luke saw Tom shrug and walk away, to a group of young girls asking him for a picture. Still with the glass of Blanc in his hand, he made a beeline for the bar, got a refill and memorized the drink's brand... he had the feeling that he was going to need a lot of sparkling wine to survive the following weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and feedback are always welcome. Thank you for reading!


	3. Hangover Breakfast

**Chapter 3: Hangover Breakfast**

In a big city like London, where more than eight million people toil and sweat every day, space is a resource that cannot be wasted. Hundreds of great houses on both sides of the Thames had been transformed into blocks of flats, and the new buildings tended to cram their inhabitants into tiny studios or apartments with no more than one or two bedrooms.

The Barbican Estate was the perfect example of that modern mentality, with its many terrace blocks and maisonettes that composed an architectural symphony right in the middle of the City. Living at the Barbican was in itself a symbol of status, and not just because of the high prices. From the top of any of the three monumental towers that crowned the estate one could see London in all its glory, and for many people it was worth sacrificing a bit of floor space for a magnificent sight like that.

But not all urban flats are created equal, and the Barbican architects knew it well; therefore, on the upper levels of the towers they designed a number of bigger lodgings, all of them with five or more spacious rooms. The top floor of each one of the three concrete behemoths was divided into three huge penthouse flats, an oasis of luxury that dominated the whole landscape.

The most famous of the three buildings was Shakespeare Tower, of course. Being identical to the other two, its name was probably the only real reason for its fame. Whenever a photographer wanted to do a study in Brutalist architecture, that was the building he featured in his photoshoots. The gift shop at the Barbican Centre was full of posters, postcards, notebooks... even tea towels, all with the image of the impossibly tall, menacingly grey giant. Many tourists observed it from below, wondering how would it feel to look at the city from a height of 400 feet, or to wake up with the pale rays of the elusive London sun, that surely touched the top of Shakespeare Tower first before descending onto the rest of the mortal population.

On the 42nd floor of the Tower, alone between the wrinkled sheets of his bed, Chef Tom Hiddleston blinked in the morning light, groaned loudly, and covered his head with one of the pillows.

The sunlight had just woken him up from an intensely erotic dream featuring a blonde beauty with lovely blue eyes... whose face, like most of the details of a dream, vanished from his memory a second after opening his eyes. He had almost made up his mind to go back to sleep, when an unwelcome voice brought him out of his slumber.

"Oh, it's such a beautiful day! We should have breakfast in the balcony, Tom... You're going to cook me breakfast, aren't you?"

Blinking groggily in the general direction of the voice in question, he saw one of his white button-down shirts, the same he'd been wearing the night before, wrapped around the curvy figure of a woman with blond hair. For a moment he thought he was still dreaming, but then she turned around and the illusion shattered. For a second or two she had looked like the girl on his dream... but the nose definitely wasn't the same, and the hair was similar, but a slightly wrong shade of gold.

Not only his subconscious was playing tricks on him. His memory seemed to be having a bad day too, because he was completely unable to remember the name of the girl who had spent the night with him.

"Tom? Are you awake?"

"Yes, of course, darling", he finally answered, in a hoarse voice that spoke of too many drinks and too many cigarettes. "Be a good girl and put the kettle on. I'll be with you in a minute."

He sauntered towards the bathroom, hoping that a shower would melt away the dull pain behind his eyes. No matter how many hangovers he got, he'd never get used to them.

The stream of cool water running over his body finally woke him up, and a couple of minutes later he was feeling almost cheerful. That is, until the voice of his incidental lover startled him again.

"Tom, don't you want me to get in the shower with you?" The words came from the other side of the closed door.

"Not now, darling! I'm almost finished", he barked, turning off the water and wrapping a towel around his waist.

The blonde woman (her name hadn't returned to Tom's mind yet) had made breakfast. Nothing too refined, just some tea and toasted muffins with jam, but Tom was starving. Without bothering to sit down he devoured a muffin, while the girl tried to make him get rid of the towel that covered only the bare minimum.

"Please, not while I'm eating, love."

"Why are you so grumpy this morning?" she pouted. "Last night you said your restaurant was closed today, and we could spend all day in bed."

Tom poured himself another cup of tea, trying to think of a plausible excuse. "My business partner just sent me a message. I need to go to the restaurant and help him do inventory. Sorry, darling, we'll have to cancel those plans."

Another pout, but she seemed satisfied with the answer.

"Why don't you give me your number? I'll call you tomorrow", he continued, searching for a pen in the kitchen drawers. When he couldn't find any, he went to the coffee table in the living room, which had a number of magazines, pens and sheets of paper scattered over it.

"Oh, look, this is funny! That girl on the cover, don't you think she looks like me?" said the girl, grabbing the pen and paper from Tom's hands and pointing towards a copy of the American edition of Food & Wine Magazine.

"Of course not, love, she looks nothing like–" he stopped himself and inhaled, sharply, because from a certain angle the similarities were uncanny.

The nose was definitely not the same.

The eyes were also blue, yes, but a slightly different shape. And the blond hair was wrong. Too yellow on one woman, or maybe not yellow enough on the other.

What was perfectly clear to him in a single second was that his subconscious was a son of a bitch, and that he'd just had a very wet dream... starring himself _and_ the aspiring chef Hallie Harrison.

Tom picked up the magazine and dropped it again on the table. "Darling, I didn't realize it was so late... Luke must be waiting for me at Band of Brothers." He approached the girl, who was still wearing his white shirt, and kissed her on the lips. With his eyes closed, of course, because if he opened them and saw the blond hair and the blue eyes he knew he'd remember more of his extremely inappropriate dream.

Fortunately for him, his circling thoughts were interrupted by more mundane matters.

"Can I keep your shirt, Tom? My top got stained with wine yesterday at the club."

"Yes, of course you can, darling", he answered, frankly relieved that she was leaving. "You better get dressed, I'll call you a taxi."

After the blonde woman left, he felt queasy. He put on an old pair of jeans, smoked a couple of cigarettes on the balcony that looked over the City, and hid the copy of the Food & Wine in the bottom of a drawer.

_Out of sight, out of mind._

With that thought he grabbed his leather jacket and decided to go to the restaurant and transform his previous lie into a partial truth. Sunday was the day Band of Brothers closed, but he wanted to work on some new recipes to keep his mind clear.

"It's been a while since we've changed the menu", he muttered to himself. "That's exactly what I need, some time alone in my own kitchen without Luke worrying about the revenue and the kitchen personnel bickering and getting in the middle of things."

On his way out he saw a scribbled piece of paper on the kitchen counter; he picked it up, cursed loudly, and threw the crumpled white ball into the dustbin. No matter if he wanted to call the girl the next day or not, it had become impossible now, because...

Because his night companion had written down her number, but _not_ her name.

* * *

 

"Am I late for lunch, boss?" asked the young Black woman standing at Luke Windsor's door.

"Shirley! No, of course not, come on in. Hallie is just about to finish cooking."

Luke closed the door of his elegant Mayfair flat. "Connor is here too for the taste menu. And he's brought dessert."

Shirley didn't need help to find the kitchen, because from across the hall came the sound of a cheery conversation, and also a delicious smell. She found Hallie standing next to the hob, wearing a pink _'stay calm and kiss the cook'_ apron; she was busy with several pots and pans while Connor sat on a stool, observing the process.

"Hey, we have company!' said Connor, raising his glass of wine. "Hallie, allow me to introduce Shirley Lane; Luke's secretary, friend, accountant, and right hand for practically everything."

The two women shook hands and exchanged smiles.

"I'm so happy to meet you at last, Hallie! I confess I've been fangirling over you since the first time I saw you on MasterChef. May I ask what are you making? Or is it a surprise?"

"Oh, I can tell you, but you're going to see for yourself in a few minutes", answered Hallie, lifting the lid of a pan to taste the food. "I'm making lobster tail poached in butter with spring rolls and lemongrass sauce. Then there's _salmon en papillote_ with green beans and pearl onions, that one is still in the oven... and, finally, we'll have lamb with a zucchini and mint purée, glazed carrots and a rosemary Yorkshire pudding."

"Everything sounds delicious!"

"And you might want to save some enthusiasm for later, Shirley. I've brought dessert", interrupted Connor, "because I know how much everybody likes my macarons."

"Chocolate?" she asked in a hopeful voice.

"Dark chocolate and cherry. And I've also made angel cakes drizzled with a lemon and passionfruit curd", finished the pastry chef triumphantly. "But enough about me and my food! Hallie is the one who should be telling us about herself... For instance, when did you hear the call of the culinary world?"

"Well, it was a very belated call, I'm afraid", answered the blonde woman while she took the _papillotes_ out of the oven. "I went to college to study fashion merchandising, but after getting my degree my Dad passed away suddenly, and I had to help my Mom and my brother with the family business. Dad had a shop that sold agricultural supplies, for the vineyards. So, I became an expert on leaf removers and herbicide sprayers... but I've always loved to cook. Nothing was more relaxing for me than getting home and making something delicious after a long day of selling agricultural machinery."

Meanwhile, Luke had finished setting the table, and they moved to the dining room while Hallie put the final touches on the plates. Shirley couldn't help snapping a picture of the artistically presented food, and the four of them sat down to eat.

"Tell me more about you, Connor", said Hallie, a bit nervous about the food that was about to be tasted. "How long have you been working at Band of Brothers?"

"Three years, which makes me the absolute veteran of our little restaurant", he boasted. "Unfortunately, most of our personnel can't endure more than a few months of T–" he stopped abruptly and made a small grimace, because both Luke and Shirley had kicked him under the table. "What I mean... what I mean is that there's a lot of mobility in our profession. In general. Every week a new restaurant opens and many cooks are attracted by the shiny new things in town", he finished, hoping he hadn't said too much.

Luke decided to take the reins of the conversation before the pastry chef revealed the real reason for all those cooks leaving.

"This lobster is absolutely delicious, Hallie, and the lemongrass sauce goes perfectly with it. I know we had already closed the deal informally, but... now I can finally say it will be an honor to have you as the new sous-chef of Band of Brothers. Our clients won't feel the need to discover new restaurants when they see the wonderful food they can get at ours", he finished, refilling everybody's glasses and toasting to the new chef in town.

"Speaking of new restaurants..." said Hallie, "Luke, have you heard of a place called Aeon? I think it opened a few months ago, it does that avant-garde cuisine everybody talks so much about."

"Ah, you've just mentioned our deadly enemy, Hallie!" he joked. "Aeon is right across the street from Band of Brothers, which makes it our direct competition. I've heard the food is good, but their concept is a bit too post-modern to my taste."

"I got an offer from them... just the day after you contacted me. The truth is I couldn't believe that two London restaurants were interested in me."

Luke, Shirley and Connor exchanged a knowing glance.

"Out of pure curiosity... What made you reject Aeon and accept our offer?" asked Luke, trying not to sound tense under his smile. The last thing he needed was his new sous-chef running into Harrington Craig's arms (figuratively or literally) and becoming a part of the problem instead of the solution.

Hallie took a small bite of her Yorkshire pudding. "Well, I felt I had a sort of obligation to you, because after all you asked me first. Then I did some research about both restaurants, and I was really interested in the food Chef Tom makes. I can learn molecular gastronomy anywhere in California, but I really want to explore the British cuisine... so in the end I said yes to the most attractive offer."

"And we're horribly happy to have you here, luv", said the pastry chef with a wide smile. "I've been having to play the role of Tom's second in command for the last couple of months, but now that you're here I can go back to the pies and the cakes that I love."

"Speaking of Chef Tom... why is he not here today? He must have a lot of trust in you to let you attend this taste menu and decide for him."

"Tom has complete confidence in my judgment... and also in your abilities, Hallie", was Luke's quick answer. "He liked your résumé so much that he didn't even need to see you cook."

His blatant lie made Connor raise an eyebrow towards the ceiling; Shirley managed to conceal her snort with a discreet cough.

"Hallie, can you help me take the plates back to the kitchen?" she asked, still trying to stifle the burst of laughter from a moment before. "Don't get up, boys, we'll bring the dessert!"

Once the two women had exited the dining room, Luke let out a worried sigh. "And now that the elephant in the room has been revealed, we just need to keep our fingers crossed and hope Tom doesn't say anything inconvenient."

"You may have to put a muzzle on him for that. A very big one", laughed Connor. "But why don't we take Hallie to the restaurant? There's no one in there today, and I'm sure she will fall in love with the place as soon as she sees the kitchen. Tomorrow we'll introduce her to Tom in front of all the cooks, and his only option will be to behave. What do you think?"

"I think you're a genius, man. Those scientists who say sugar is good for the brain are absolutely right." He got up and went to the kitchen, where Hallie was arranging the macarons on a small tray. "Ladies, what do you say we make a little excursion? Hallie, we can take you to Band of Brothers and show you around. You can get acquainted with it without being overwhelmed on a busy day."

"Thank you, Luke, that sounds like a great idea", answered Hallie with a smile. "You've told me so many things about the restaurant that I feel like I already know the place, but it will be wonderful to see it at last."

"And don't worry about later, I'll drive you home. You live in Golden Lane, right?"

"Exactly. I've only started to decorate the place, but it's a very nice estate."

"That's really close to where Tom lives!", interrupted Shirley. "You can go to work together until you get your own car... Ow!" this time _she_ was the recipient of a concealed pinch and a warning glare from Luke.

"That's right", he continued. "Tom lives at the Barbican, in Shakespeare Tower. You'll probably be able to see it from your place, it's one of the tallest buildings in London."

"Shakespeare Tower, Band of Brothers... that's too many references to be a coincidence", noticed Hallie. "Tom must be a Shakespeare enthusiast."

"I'm afraid the Band of Brothers name was my idea", answered Luke, picking up the dessert trays and making his way back to the table. "Tom and I studied Classics and English at Oxford, but his real love was cooking, even back then. I regret to inform you that no one on Earth could care less about Shakespeare than Tom Hiddleston."

* * *

 

The ride to Chelsea was uneventful, since it was a Sunday afternoon and London was in a sleepy state. Shirley and Connor had things to do, so they said their goodbyes mid-way and Luke dropped them near the Hyde Park Corner tube. A few minutes later they arrived to Blacklands Terrace, a quiet street full of trees and lovely low houses.

Luke opened the main door of the restaurant, but when he went to disconnect the alarm he found it was already off. He didn't think much of it, because sometimes the cleaning lady worked a few extra hours, especially when she had to do the windows.

"Hello? Luke?"

The voice that came from the kitchen definitely didn't belong to any cleaning lady. Trying to make the most of a bad situation, Luke led his guest to the spacious and well-furnished kitchen, where a tall man in jeans and a grey t-shirt seemed to be so busy and focused that he didn't even look at the door.

"For goodness sake, Tom, it's Sunday... what are you doing at work?"

"Variations on my grilled scallops recipe", was the absent-minded answer. He finally turned around to reveal a feverish gaze, and a handsome face that hadn't been shaven in several days. When he saw that his business partner had arrived with company he turned off the stove, grabbed Luke's arm and pulled him aside towards the pantry.

"What is _she_ doing here?"

Luke rolled his eyes, cursing his bad luck and the stubbornness of his friend.

"Welcome to the real world, Tom", he hissed, hoping that Hallie didn't listen. "The world where you can't do everything by yourself and you have to actually work with other human beings. You just missed a fabulous lunch just for the sake of being pig-headed, and I won't let you scare away the person who can save our restaurant. Now you're going to get out there and be civil... no, forget civil, you're going to be the charming bastard I know you can be. Because if Hallie walks out of here because of you, I swear to God I'll put this place for sale tomorrow."

The two men returned to the kitchen, and Tom even managed a smile with his handshake. "Miss Harrison, what a pleasure. I wasn't expecting you so soon, and I'm afraid the kitchen is a mess."

"Oh, it's nothing! You should have seen what my kitchen looked like the first time I tried to make a _soufflé_ ", she answered, a bit intimidated because no one had told her that Tom stood almost a foot taller than her, and he made her feel tiny and insignificant in the middle of that gorgeous professional kitchen.

"I was experimenting on some new recipes, as you can see. My problem is that I've almost found the perfect sauce to go with the scallops, but I can't help the feeling that there's something missing." He grabbed a wooden spoon, dipped it in a saucepan, and offered it to Hallie. "Maybe our brilliant MasterChef winner can help me find what it is?"

She held the spoon with a shaky hand, closed her eyes and tasted the sauce. Tom's idea had been to make her nervous, but then she went for a second taste, the tip of her tongue lingered on her pink lips for a moment, and he got distracted thinking of how those lips would feel on...

"Tom! Are you with us, mate?"

"Yes, right here!" he woke up from his daydream and shook his head. "Sorry, Miss Harrison, you were saying...?"

"Please, call me Hallie. I was saying that it's a lovely sauce, but it's just a bit too sweet. It needs acid... I'd suggest lime juice, but there are a number of other things that could work, and..."

"Lime juice! Of course!" Tom slapped his forehead, smiled again (this time for real) and disappeared for a moment inside one of the industrial-sized cupboards. He emerged a moment later with a lime in his left hand, and a white garment on the other one. The feverish look had appeared again in his eyes, one that Luke had learned to identify as a moment of 'creative fever'.

The white piece of cloth, which turned out to be a chef coat, flew across the room towards Hallie, who caught it in mid-air.

"I'm having a number of problems with my recipes today, Hallie, and I'm going to need your palate... and an extra pair of hands. Would you like to start working right now?"

"Yes, Chef!" she beamed.

"Brilliant!" He turned on the stove again, waved Luke away, and winked at his new sous-chef. "Let's cook."

 


	4. Craft Ale and a Touch of Ginger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a really long time since I've updated this fic, but at last Chef!Tom is speaking to me again. Things will develop faster from this chapter, so I hope to publish the next one soon. Thank you for your patience!

**Chapter 4: Craft Ale and a Touch of Ginger**

"Geranium Organic Shop, how may I help you?"

The customer on the other side of the phone line could almost hear the girl's warm smile in her voice. Practically every customer could, because the shop assistant was genuinely happy working there.

In their original plan, the Barbican architects had envisioned shops, pubs and restaurants all across the estate, serving the needs of its five thousand residents. They had also designed Frobisher Crescent, to the north of the Arts Centre, as a miniature shopping mall; unfortunately this vision was never fully realized, and most of the empty shop spaces were occupied by offices and storage units.

However, a handful of businesses resisted the general tendency, and the flourishing Geranium was one of them... mostly thanks to the friendly and efficient Gemma.

The shop owners loved her because she was very good at her job, and also because of her very convenient 'flower child' image: an effortless compound of long wavy hair, flowy dresses and floral patterns. A bit outdated, perhaps, but it worked in the context of the shop. And the Barbican residents, most of them wealthy and a bit snobbish, were delighted to have a place like Geranium where they could get their homemade (not to mention expensive) sourdough breads, organic peaches and alfalfa sprouts without having to drive several miles to the next farmer's market.

There was always some kind of zen instrumental music playing in the background, and from the ceiling hung a very colorful (and, of course, hand-crafted) mobile concoction of ribbons, glass beads and tiny bells that tinkled with the arrival of a new customer.

While Gemma was finishing her phone call, the bells in question tinkled with enthusiasm, as if they were eager to announce Christmas several months in advance. Always her usual cheerful self, the shop girl turned towards the entrance and offered her best smile to the two tall young men who were at the door.

"Tom, I hope that craft ale you spoke of is worth the trip. You owe me one for leaving me alone at the pub yesterday evening. The Arsenal lost and I had to endure the defeat on my own."

"You haven't tried anything like it, Luke. It's way above anything you can get in a pub and—" Tom interrupted himself and winked at the girl behind the counter. "Hey, Gemma. How are you?"

The girl's smile faded just as quickly as it had appeared.

"Hi, Tom."

If any of the two men noticed the girl's sudden change in humour, they didn't show it.

"Gemma, this is my friend Luke. I want him to try that fantastic ale from Yorkshire that I bought two weeks ago. If you haven't sold all of it, of course."

"We still have a couple of boxes in the back. I'll get one for you", came the muttered answer, while the girl disappeared towards the storage area with downcast eyes and her printed cotton dress floating behind her.

"I'd recognize that face anywhere. What did you do to this one, Tom?" asked Luke. "Dumped her for her best friend?"

"No."

"Did she catch you cheating on her with her sister?"

"Don't be disgusting", answered Tom with a grimace. "I would never do that, unless the sister was... look, I don't even know if she's got any sisters, okay?"

Luke was starting to enjoy the interrogation. "Then why is she behaving as if you had committed a capital crime?"

"We went out a couple of times and I didn't call her. It's as simple as that." Despite the bad excuse, Tom managed to sound almost ashamed.

"It wouldn't have to be as simple as that if you didn't behave like a pig every time."

"I thought I liked her, and then it turned out I didn't. You can't blame me for that, Luke... mate, you're my best friend. I can't have you turn against me too."

A rustling sound of sandals on hardwood indicated that Gemma had come back to the front of the shop, and Luke lowered his voice to a whisper. "I am always on your side, Tom... but as your best friend it's my duty to inform you that this war of conquest against women has already gone a bit too far."

Tom paid for his box of beer with an apologetic smile to the shop girl, who resumed her place behind the counter and bid the two men a good day without losing her sad expression.

"Well, where do we go now?" asked Luke, happy to be out of the shop and away from the drama of his friend's love life. "We have time for a pint before going to work."

"I have to make a stop at the gift shop; the last time my mother was here she had her eye on a set of tea towels, and I want to get them for her".

The two friends crossed the lakeside terrace, full of tourists enjoying the sun of the warm August morning, and entered the Arts Centre building towards he gift shop.

It seemed perfectly logical that the general layout of the place was similar to Geranium. But, where the organic shop had been packed with fruits and vegetables, like a Renaissance still life, this one was a celebration of all things created by man: two lines of elegant black and white shelves framed several tables covered in neat piles of books, stationery, art prints, and gifts of every kind. The pretty shop assistant, of course, matched her minimalist habitat perfectly well: black top, black trousers, black string of pearls... only her fiery red hair broke the monochromatic harmony of the place.  

Luke tried to stay close to the entrance, in case the red-haired girl was another one of his friend's abandoned conquests. However, when Tom approached the counter, her reaction was perfectly friendly... even a bit _too_ friendly.

"Tom, hi! I wasn't expecting to see you here!" The overexcited tone was accompanied by a megawatt smile, and Luke felt safe enough to step into the shop and observe the amiable exchange of words.

"Darling June, I couldn't just pass by the shop and not say hello. How is my favorite girl today?" The Hiddleston charm was on again in full force, and the redhead fluttered her long eyelashes at him.

"Sleepy and tired... but you already know that, right?" Her smile turned coy, even a bit cheeky. She rang up the tea towels without even looking at the cash register, and put them in a trademark green Barbican bag. "So, what are you doing tonight?"

"Working, unfortunately... I have to be at the restaurant until late. What about coffee tomorrow?"

"Coffee sounds splendid."

"Then it's a date. I'll call you, beautiful."

Another delighted look, and a bit of red on the girl's cheeks when she handed Tom his purchase and their fingers touched for a second. That was all Luke needed to see, and he beckoned Tom towards the exit in the direction of the Barbican Tube stop.

"So... your current occupation is called June. You could have told me, it's getting pretty hard to keep track of all of them."

"Sorry?"

"Tom, how long have we been friends?"

"Since Eton, of course", he answered, finally coming out of his absent-minded state. "To be more precise, since the day of that rugby training where you gave me a black eye and I planted an elbow in your face. Not bad, considering that we were on the same team!"

"Exactly. Now I'm going to be as blunt as the long years of our friendship allow me and ask you a very difficult question: Is there any Barbican female resident, employee or frequent visitor, between the ages of twenty and forty-five, that you _haven't_ shagged?"

Tom had the decency to look mildly embarrassed for a couple of seconds.

"It's a big estate. There are always lots of new residents coming and going..."

"And that's what were you doing yesterday night... or rather, _who_ you were doing yesterday night. The gift shop girl, who happens to work a hundred yards away from the other shop girl you were seeing two weeks ago. Tom, when is this going to end?" asked Luke, letting out a frustrated sigh. "One day one of those scorned women is going to assassinate you!"

"Come on, mate! Have you taken a good look at June? You know how much I like gingers."

They had arrived at the Tube turnstile, and Luke fumbled in his wallet for his Oyster card. He followed his friend down the escalator, trying to keep his balance and scold him at the same time.

"I need you to promise me one thing, Tom: once you've finished bonking all the available women in London —and I know some day you will— I want your word that you won't start with the men. I don't want to be left with your sloppy seconds."

* * *

Meanwhile, in Covent Garden, Hallie was in chocolate heaven.

She had left her flat very early, wanting to explore a bit of London before going to work. After admiring the view from the top of the piazza she went straight to the market building, to see if anything caught her eye. There were plenty of attractive places to shop for antiques, souvenirs, arts and crafts... But first and foremost Hallie was looking for new food experiences, and the delicious smell of hot chocolate that came from Whittard made her stop in her tracks.

She wandered around the two-storey shop trying to decide between all the different types of tea, coffee and chocolate... not to mention the sweets. And the coffee makers. And the exquisite porcelain teapots and cups.

Being so absorbed by her surroundings, it wasn't strange that it took her less than two minutes to bump into someone.

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry! You must think I'm a clumsy idiot."

She kept apologizing for several seconds, expecting a shower of British disdain. But the tall, dark-haired man in front of her didn't seem to mind very much. He helped her pick up the box of shortbread biscuits that had jumped from her basket, and reassured her with a warm smile.

"Please, it was nothing. I also got distracted for a moment. It's so easy to get overwhelmed by this place, isn't it? I confess the hot chocolate section is my personal weakness... I'm quite partial to the Vanilla Caramel variety."

Reassured by the man's kindness, Hallie finally gathered the courage to look at him, surprised to see that his face was a bit familiar.

"Chef Craig? You're Harrington Craig, right?" The box of biscuits was returned to the shelf and momentarily forgotten, while the handsome stranger —not exactly a stranger after all— finally seemed to realize who she was.

"Miss Harrison, of course!" he left his own basket on the floor and shook her hand. "What a pleasant surprise to find you here, of all places! You told me on the phone that you had accepted another job offer, but I had no idea you had already moved to London."

"Oh, please, call me Hallie. I've been here for ten days only... and it's been a bit hectic so far, but I'm trying to adapt. Today is my first free morning of the week, and I decided to see a bit of the city."

"Splendid idea", he said, picking up his things. "May I be so bold as to offer you my services as a tour guide? I may not be very entertaining, but like any proud Londoner I love to brag a bit about my favorite places."

"Why not? I have a couple of free hours before Band of Brothers is open."

Harrington's right eyebrow almost touched the ceiling, but that was his only reaction to hearing the name of Tom's restaurant.

"Very well, then. Hallie, please consider yourself kidnapped for the rest of the morning."

* * *

Two hours later, Hallie and her new friend were sitting at Carluccio's, enjoying a cup of coffee and a pastry.

"... and then I fell off the surfboard with the loudest splashing sound anyone has ever heard!" She finished her anecdote with a flourish, making Harrington laugh. "That was more than ten years ago, and I've never gone surfing again for fear of another disaster. I'm a shame to the state of California!"

"I confess I'm not exactly a lover of aquatic sports. My personal preference is tennis... although I'm going to need several days of vigorous exercise to lose all the weight I'm going to gain with the chocolate I've bought today", he said, pointing at the shopping bags gathered at their feet.

"Do you cook with chocolate?" Hallie asked. "Or is it just for pleasure?"

"It's not exactly my field of expertise, but I've done a few experiments with Mexican mole. One day I'll invite you to Aeon so you can try one or two of my culinary eccentricities. What about you?"

"I love it! I make chocolate desserts all the time at home. Of course, now that I'm working at the restaurant Connor is in charge of that, but I'd like to help him every now and then, if he lets me."

Harrington finished what was left of his spiced bun and nodded in approval.

"Connor Thackeray is the most promising pastry chef in the city. Very clever of you to learn from him. Me, I've never fancied myself a pâtissier... but hot chocolate is my little guilty pleasure, especially after a hard day of work at the restaurant."

"I thought the English drank tea all the time. Shouldn't you be a bit more apologetic for betraying your country, Mr. Craig?"

The chef lowered his voice and flashed Hallie an impish smile, as if confessing a shameful secret. "Don't tell anyone, or they will banish me. And please, call me Harrington... or, even better, Harry; Mr. Craig sounds like the name of an old barrister."

"I've never met a Harrington before. Is it a family name?"

"What a nice way of saying it sounds awfully old fashioned!" he replied with a laugh. "Yes, it's one of those names that get dragged through the centuries and exist only for the amusement of the child's schoolmates. But at least it can be shortened to Harry, which is not so bad. My poor cousin Clarence from Devon had to endure several years of being called 'Clara' at boarding school."

The waitress approached their table with the bill. Hallie reached for her purse, but Harrington had already put a twenty pound note in the young woman's hand.

"Keep the change, please. Well", he said, turning to Hallie again, "I believe it's time for us to man our respective kitchen stations. Since we work practically door to door, will you allow me to accompany you?"

"Are all British men so wonderfully polite all the time? And don't think I didn't see what you did with the bill... next time we have coffee together, I'm paying. And that's final", she insisted, waving a finger in Harrington's face.

"Your wishes are orders, ma'am. As for next time... Who does the shopping for your restaurant? Tomorrow I'm going to the farmer's market at Notting Hill, maybe I could take you on a tour of the local produce."

"I have to be at work very early tomorrow. Tom is taking a vacation day and leaving me in charge of Band of Brothers for the first time. Lunch and dinner service, all on my shoulders."

"That sounds like fantastic news. Aren't you excited?" Harry asked, grabbing all the shopping bags with one hand and halting a cab with the other.

"Excited? Oh, I'm more nervous than a gremlin in the rain!"

* * *

Lunch at Band of Brothers started with a bang that day. To be more precise, the banging of the restaurant back door.

While most chain restaurants in London opened seven days a week, midday to midnight, Tom and Luke's venue was among the fine dining minority that aspired to be a bit more exclusive. Monday to Wednesday they opened for dinner only, thanks to Luke's policy of not overworking their personnel, and the reduced schedule seemed to work fine for everybody.

Ten minutes before noon, everything was rosy. The relatively small kitchen bustled with activity, with Birdie and the prep cook chopping, peeling and prepping food at the speed of light. Luke and the chefs weren't due to arrive until later.

And then, exactly two minutes to twelve, everything went to Hell.

First, Connor the pastry chef got out of the Tube at Sloane Square, entered the restaurant with leisurely steps, greeted the cooks, and started tempering the chocolate for his desserts.

Next, Tom parked his Aston Martin in the narrow street behind Band of Brothers, got his chef coat from the boot of the car, and decided to have a smoke before going in. That turned out to be his biggest mistake of the day.

Finally, a black cab appeared round the corner and stopped a few yards away; a series of shopping bags emerged from the back door, followed by a pair of feminine legs, and then by the rest of Hallie. She stood on the pavement, waiting to say goodbye to the other passenger of the cab, and the second Tom saw who it was he choked on the smoke of his cigarette.

"Hi, Tom!" Hallie passed by him with her shopping bags and her infuriating cheerful smile, not realizing that he was almost trembling with rage. Only when she got inside, out of sight, did he manage to regain the ability to speak.

"Craig."

"Hello, Hiddleston. Beautiful morning, isn't it?"

Anyone who had witnessed this exchange would have likened the scene to the atmosphere before a duel in a western film. It would have been hard to tell the good cowboy from the bad guy, though: any man would have looked scruffy compared to Harrington Craig in his impeccable blue suit and crisp shirt. Meanwhile Tom, in his chef coat with rolled up sleeves, with his arms covered in tattoos and a cigarette on his lips, wasn't exactly a poster boy for elegance.

"There are eight and a half million people living in London, Craig. You must have a very good reason to share a cab with the only one of them who happens to be my new sous-chef."

Harrington stood his ground, unfazed, with his hands in his pockets, like a man without a care in the world.

"What can I say? The other eight million, four hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine people don't work door to door with my restaurant; it would be stupid to share a cab with them." He raised his hands in a placating gesture, because Tom's eyes were burning as red as the ember on his cigarette. "I met her by chance at Covent Garden this morning. It was a complete coincidence, I don't want to step on your toes."

"You're very good with coincidences. Like the one that happened last year, when my girlfriend suddenly tripped and fell in your bed."

Harrington's cheeks reddened, and he stared at the tips of his shiny black shoes.

"You know it wasn't like that, Tom, and anyway it doesn't matter now. Look, I know Hallie is a very talented chef. I don't think she should be working for you, but that's the way things are. You hired her first."

"Exactly. She is _my_ sous-chef and you're trying to steal her from me, charming her with your shopping sprees and your Savile Row suits. But your recruitment methods aren't working, Craig. Why don't you look for people who are actually unemployed?"

Harrington's eyes narrowed when he heard Tom's accusation, and he lowered his tone to a menacing purr. "Thanks for the offer, Hiddleston, but I'm not searching for new prep cooks right now. However, if you're that desperate for a real job, one of my dishwashers has the flu, I may have an opening for this week."

"Are you sure it's not stomach sickness? You shouldn't let your people eat the things you cook... unless you want to poison them all. And speaking of poison, how is the _lovely_ Mrs. Craig? Too busy trying new tiaras?"

Harrington barked a bitter laugh and took a step towards Tom. "You know our divorce was final two months ago, or you wouldn't be asking me. If I happen to speak to her, shall I give her your number? I'm sure she'll be quite happy to have you back."

"Thanks. I'd rather have a permanent table at your sodding restaurant than cross three words with that harpy again." Tom threw the cigarette stub to the ground and stepped on it with much more force than necessary. "Meanwhile, keep your dirty paws away from Hallie. She's too good for you."

"Maybe I don't need to lay a finger on her, Hiddleston. Maybe in a couple of months you will have scared her away, like you do with all the good people who work at your place. Is it true that all your cooks keep resigning and even your business partner is thinking of leaving you?"

Tom closed his hand in a tight fist, fighting the impulse to grab Harrington by the lapels of his suit and slam him against the wall.

"Squawk all you want, but it won't change the fact that Band of Brothers is miles above that cheap joint you call a restaurant. While you keep playing with your spherification kits and your liquid nitrogen, I have a kitchen that runs like clockwork. What do you think of that?"

Not wanting to drag the argument for much longer, the other man took a couple of steps back, retreating towards the main street.

"What I think is that you should quit smoking. Those things will kill you one day."

"Bugger off, Craig", Tom growled, slamming the door on his way back inside Band of Brothers.

* * *

"But how can he be Tom's arch-enemy? People don't have arch-enemies in real life!" Hallie's voice came in a hushed whisper, because although Tom was busy picking stuff from the pantry she still feared he would come back into the kitchen and hear the furtive conversation. She was about to start a hollandaise sauce for the baked arctic char entrée, and that was always a delicate task.

The other conspirators were not so worried about the boss eavesdropping. Birdie kept chopping mushrooms and sautéeing them in a huge pan, while Connor piped dark chocolate decorations on a row of vanilla bourbon mini-cakes.

"In this case they do", he answered, not taking his eyes away from the piping bag. "If we lived in Medieval times, they would be beating each other with swords right now."

"Seriously, Connor... that sounds like something out of a James Bond movie."

"They were friends before, you know. They had always been rivals, since they went together to… to that posh school for rich boys", Birdie chimed in. "But things got really ugly a year ago, when Mister Craig went and married Chef Tom's ex girlfriend."

"No way!" Hallie almost dropped the whisk she was holding.

"Well, the truth is she didn't get to be his 'ex' for long... She went straight from being with Chef Tom to a quick engagement to Mister Craig and a wedding a few weeks later. She barely had time to change her sheets." Birdie's disdain for his boss's enemy was reflected in the fact that she never called Harrington 'Chef'; always 'Mr. Craig'."

"Poor Tom, that had to be really hard on him. No wonder he's so cranky all the time."

Connor had finished with the mini-cakes. He gave one to Hallie to taste, and put the rest of them in the refrigerator.

"Well, in this case Chef Craig was hoist with his own petard: his wife left him a few months ago. Nobody knows exactly why... but rumours say she's dating a Duke now." He went back to the dessert station and wiped the few drops of melted chocolate that had fallen on the marble surface. "You know, I personally never liked Charlotte very much... but she was Tom's bird, and it was shitty of Craig to go after her like that."

Hallie frowned and went back to her sauce without answering. She had the feeling that working at Band of Brothers was going to be more interesting than she had anticipated.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the pantry, Tom had no idea that Hallie was being informed of a year's worth of gossip about him. He picked the bunch of horseradish roots he needed for his veal dish, hoping to be able to concentrate on his cooking and not on his ex-girlfriend, his ex-friend or any other ex-acquaintances of any kind. Mentally planning several dishes at the same time, he headed towards the kitchen, but what he saw from the door made him stop in his tracks.

He blinked a couple of times and let the air escape from his lungs slowly. Slower than usual, with the faint hissing sound that people usually make when they want to control their breathing... usually because it's the only thing they can tame among many other incontrollable things.

The source of his sudden frustration was a hollandaise sauce. To be more precise, the person making the hollandaise sauce, who happened to be his recently recruited sous-chef. Hallie was at her station, with her back to him, concentrated on the task at hand. Her hair was tied in a severe bun and hidden beneath a white hat. An equally modest chef coat, stained in places with cooking oil and sauce, covered her up to her neck. So far, so good.

But what really caused most of Tom's uneasiness was the whisking. He could hear the rhythmic sound of the metallic whisk against the bowl, glimpse the up-and-down beating movement of her hand. And he could see... or, more accurately, _suffer_ the rhythm of Hallie's hips swinging in perfect sync with the motions of her upper arm. Left, right, left, right... like a hypnotic dance that dried his mouth, accelerated his pulse and made him reach for a bottle of cold water.

"Do you need me to take care of that, Chef?"

"Sorry?"

Birdie pointed to the horseradish in Tom's hand.

"The radish sauce. I've finished with the mushrooms, I can make the sauce now."

"No, thank you, Birdie." He shook his head and made an effort to look away from Hallie's station. "Ah... start with the potatoes dauphinoise, please, I'll manage the rest. Thank you."

The older woman cast a sideways glance at his boss. One 'please' and two 'thank yous' in the same sentence were something she had never heard from him before. She returned to her station with a smile on her face, happy that the American girl was being such a good influence on the usually sulky chef.

After a few seconds more of vigorous beating, Hallie put the whisk away and tried the sauce with a small spoon. The taste was exactly what she wanted... but she looked around for a second opinion anyway, and the only person close to her was Tom.

"Want a taste?" She picked a clean spoon and offered him a bit of the hollandaise; instead of taking the spoon from her hand, Tom bent his head and took it into his mouth.

"Hallie, this is gorgeous."

"I was fearing it would be a bit too tart—"

"It's perfect", he interrupted her. "Good job."

She let out a relieved sigh. "I just want tomorrow to be a success. You must be worried about letting me manage the kitchen, but I'm going to do my best. I hope I don't forget anything!"

Tom saw an opening. And when he saw an opening, he always went for it.

"Well, we're practically neighbours, why not take advantage of that? Come to my flat tonight after work and we'll go over the recipes one more time before you have to cook on your own tomorrow."

"That's very kind of you, Tom... but my biggest enemy on days of stress is lack of sleep. I want to go straight home when we're finished tonight and be well rested for the fight."

"Some other day, then." Tom tried not to sound annoyed (there would be other openings further on) and went back to his dishes; his mood had improved a little, and he was able to concentrate on the food... even to enjoy it.

He was putting the finishing touches on his veal cutlets with red wine sauce, when a hand on his shoulder startled him.

"Tom, can you come to my office for a sec?"

"Luke, service starts in fifteen minutes. Whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait."

"Office. Now."

The chef bit his lip, worried; Luke could sound like a scolding teacher when he was irritated. He followed his friend to the office, wondering if he had gone too far in his argument with Harrington Craig.

Luke adjusted his glasses over his nose. "Tom, I just heard you inviting Hallie to your flat for a night of cooking lessons and happy companionship."

"Yes. I think it will be good for her to—"

"No."

"What?"

"You heard me. Hallie is out of bounds."

"Come on, man... since when do you worry about what I do in my free time?"

"Since a PR mishap — _another_ PR mishap— could be a disaster for our business, Tom. The last thing I want is that girl resigning in a furious rage next week, and then telling the Daily Mail what an awful bloke you are."

"Who said I would be awful? I like her! And we're just going to cook, anyway."

"You like all women for ten minutes, Tom! You're going to take her out twice and then look for greener pastures... or worse, start shagging other girls while you're officially with her. Then I, being the responsible part in this partnership, will have to deal with the consequences." He paced up and down the room, thinking of all the other times he'd had to fix Tom's messes. "Do you remember that lovely Air France flight attendant who threatened to take a handful of sleeping pills after you left her for her even lovelier coworker? I was the one who had to talk to her, dry her tears and point her in the general direction of a therapist. Now she thinks I'm one of her best friends in the world. Oh, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn't make her get all the subtle 'Luke is gay' clues, so to this day I'm still getting the occasional dinner invitation every time she's in London... all thanks to you!"

"Luke, mate, I think you're overreacting. It was just a—"

"I'll tell you one last time, in culinary terms so you can understand it: keep your hands off Hallie's buns. Forever."

Luke straightened his tie, picked up a menu and headed for the dining room, leaving his crestfallen friend alone in the office.

* * *

It was almost midnight when Hallie arrived to her flat, completely knackered.

Without even bothering to undress she fell on the bed and took off her shoes, wondering if she would have the energy to prepare a light dinner. Her mobile phone chimed twice, reminding her that it had been forgotten in her purse all day.

There were seventeen unread emails in her inbox. When she read the fourth one she got up from the bed, went to the living room and leafed through a pile of documents she had left on the table the day before. After finding the one she was looking for, she pressed the speed dial button on her phone.

"Mom?" An cold automated message reminded her that Lorraine Harrison's number was not available. Hallie let out a loud sigh; voice mail wasn't the right way to deliver certain news, but she was too tired to wait and call later.

"Mom, there's been a change of plans. Don't worry, it's good news, but... you and Max need to move here as soon as possible. Next week, if you can manage it. Look, it's very late here, I'll call you tomorrow and explain everything. I love you!"

Back in her room she picked up her laptop and opened the email in question. On the bigger screen it looked less worrying, and she read it several times with a hopeful smile on her face.

_Dear Ms. Harrison,_

_As per our last communication, we had previously notified you that your son Maximillian David had been accepted to our School, and that he was scheduled to start at the beginning of the Lent Term, on the 7th of January._

_However, we are happy to inform you that, due to a last moment resignation, we will be able to admit Maximillian to the Autumn Term, which starts on Tuesday the 3rd of September, when he will join the Year Three class._

_We are delighted that you have chosen us as your son's under school and we are looking forward to having him with us and help him adapt to his new life in Britain._

_We aim to ensure that every boy is happy at our school and, when you come and see us, I am sure you will find all our staff and faculty very friendly. The academic standard here is high; but high expectations in the classroom and good sport, music, art and drama are by no means mutually exclusive, and we value our pupils’ achievements in all areas of school life._

_Since in your particular case all of the admission procedures have been conducted via telephone and electronic mail, I would like to offer you the opportunity to visit the School and familiarize yourself with our facilities and our policies before the term starts. Please do not hesitate to contact me if you wish to schedule a visit and a personal interview with the School Master._

_We look forward to hearing from you. Yours sincerely,_

_Mabel Clapham_

_Secretary, Westminster Under School_

 


	5. Champagne Tarts, Sweet and Sour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've hit a follower milestone on Tumblr this week, so as a special treat I have two chapters for you: one today, and the next one on Thursday. Thank you for your kudos and comments!

**Chapter 5: Champagne Tarts, Sweet and Sour**

“Mom, how do I look?”

The little boy stood in the middle of the living room with a proud smile, and Hallie almost burst into tears of relief. She had worried that Max would have a hard time adjusting to the idea of a new country and a new school, but so far he seemed perfectly comfortable in his grey uniform, complete with a very elegant tie with pink and grey stripes.

From the other side of the room, Lorraine, Hallie’s mother, adjusted her glasses and observed the scene. They had arrived from California only three days before, and the flat’s living room was still full of open suitcases, piles of clothes and a few heavy boxes that had arrived by courier.

Even Scotty, the orange tabby cat, abandoned his comfortable spot by the window and approached the blond little boy who stood, straight as a soldier, waiting for her mom’s approval. After sniffing the boy’s shiny black shoes, the cat, largely unimpressed, yawned a couple of times and claimed ownership of a nearby armchair.

“You look very handsome, Max.” Hallie’s voice trembled a little. “Looks like you’re a big boy now.”

“Do I look like Harry Potter?” he asked, fidgeting with the knot of his tie. To his seven year old mind, school uniforms were something out of movies and fairytales. 

Hallie laughed and crouched before Max to be at eye level with him.

“Like a blond, adorable little Harry Potter, yes.”

“But Mom, I’m not little anymore! I’m going to a big London school!” He pouted for a second or two, just until he thought of another question. “Nana, is it true that the school has four Houses, like Hogwarts?”

This time it was Lorraine’s turn to smile at her grandson. “Yes, pumpkin, there are four Houses, but we won’t know what House you’re in until your first day of school. And there’s no Sorting Hat, so don’t you start looking for one when you arrive!” She mussed up her grandson’s hair and gave him a brief hug. “Now that you’ve tried on your new uniform, why don’t you go to your room and change into your normal clothes while your Mum and I finish unpacking? And after that, we will hang your Lightning McQueen poster on the wall, okay?”

“Yay, Lightning McQueen!” With that promise in mind, the kid bolted out of the room and disappeared from sight.

“Our little pumpkin is growing up”, sighed Hallie. “Mom, have I done the right thing moving here? I wouldn’t want to wreck Max’s childhood just because I wanted to have a career.”

“Nonsense, dear. You were only a year older than Max when we moved from here to Santa Rosa. And do you have any childhood traumas that you’ve been hiding from your mother for the past twenty years?”

“Absolutely none.”

“Don’t you love your new job? And don’t try to deny it; I’ve seen you planning menus and practicing dishes, and I know when my daughter is happy.”

“Oh, yes, I’m happier than I’ve been in years! Every time I step into that kitchen it feels… right, like I’m exactly where I belong.”

“Then you can be sure you’ve made the right decision. Max is only seven; in two weeks he’ll have a dozen new friends, and in two months he’ll be speaking with a British accent. Trust this old teacher’s judgment: children are very adaptable at this age.” She picked up some books from a box and started organizing them on the shelves. “Although I wonder why you had to choose that posh school for him. You know, there are a lot of perfectly good state schools all around London.”

“Yes, Mom, I know you’re a firm supporter of public education, but—”

“You went to a public school all your life, and you turned out fine.”

“But I don’t want _fine_ , not for Max. It’s bad enough for him that he’s growing up without a father, and without any male role model since Dad passed away. I dropped out of college when I had him, and all I could manage later was community college. And I don’t want that for Max; if he wants to go to Oxford or Cambridge, he’ll go there, even if it means sending him to one of the most expensive under schools in London.”

“What if he wants to become a chef like you?”

“Then we’ll look for some top notch culinary schools when he’s old enough. Anything to give him a good start in life. When I formalize my investment in Band of Brothers I will legally own forty per cent of the business, so if Max wants to work there when he grows up I’ll make sure he has a good opportunity.”

“Speaking of your investment, how is that going? You know finance is not exactly my strongest suit, but we can go over the little black figures if you need help.”

“Thanks, Mom, but I don’t think it will be necessary. I’ve been talking to Luke –after all he’s the main shareholder– and he wants me to wait until I’m all settled to formalize the deal. I’ve hired an accountant and a lawyer… no, not a lawyer, a solicitor”, she said, reminding herself to use British terms. “To help me manage the taxes and everything… I’ll have my salary here and the royalties from the cookbook in America, so I’m going to need some help with the little black figures, as you call them. I also got an email from my editor in San Francisco, they’re going to send me the almost-definitive draft of the book so I can give it a last revision before sending it to print… God, I have a thousand things to do!”

“And that’s exactly why your mother is here, to give you a hand. Now, I’m going to start making dinner before it gets too late. You should go to Max’s room and see that he’s up to this time. There’s too much silence, it can’t be anything good.”

“He’s probably leafing through his new school books. I told him not to unwrap them yet, but I’m sure he hasn’t been able to resist.” Hallie gathered up a pile of little boy’s clothes from one of the suitcases and headed towards the bedroom, before Lorraine’s voice stopped her.

“Hallie, what about the other owner of the restaurant, that Chef Hiddleston? Is he being nice to you? I’ve read a couple of things about him and I’m not sure I’m going to like him very much.”

“Mom, have you been reading the Daily Mail again?”

“Of course not! I’d never read that filthy rag. I just want to know if he’s treating you well.”

“Tom can be a difficult man, and I know from Luke that he didn’t want me in the restaurant at first… but he’s been perfectly nice to me, he respects my cooking, and that’s what matters. He doesn’t have to like me personally, only professionally, and I think we’re good on that front.”

“Fair enough. Tell him that if he’s mean to you I’ll go there and box his ears.”

“Mom!” laughed Hallie, a bit scandalized. “You can’t do that to a man with a Michelin star! Look, Tom is the hardest working person I’ve ever met. I’m sure he’s at home right now concocting some new and super original dish that no one has ever imagined before.”

“On his night off? I sincerely doubt it.”

“Don’t be mean, Mom. Tom takes his cooking very seriously. Just wait till you meet him!”

* * *

If Hallie had wanted to earn a living as a medium or a telepath, she would have been doomed to a life of failure. Tom wasn’t exactly working on any new recipe; in fact, cooking as a hundred miles away from his mind.

Everything was a hundred miles away from his mind, except for two things: first, the whiskey tumbler in his hand (Macallan, 12 years; pale golden with a crisp flavour and a floral aftertaste). Second, the woman dancing on a pole a few yards away from him (Franzeska, age undisclosed; a couple of shades darker than the whiskey thanks to a skillfully applied spray tan, flavour… still to be determined).

White’s Gentleman Club at St. James’s Street was one of the most famous burlesque clubs in London. And probably the most prestigious, thanks to a list of members that included bankers, businessmen, MPs, and even a member or two of the royal family.

The atmosphere was less sordid than in a regular strip club; the drinks less watered; and the ladies who put their considerable skills at the disposal of members and visitors were invariably beautiful, discreet, and most of them actually appeared to have a very extensive training as dancers.

The talented Franzeska was without doubt one of the stars of the house: she was hanging upside down from the pole, keeping her balance with only the toned muscles of her right leg. Her black hair descended in thick waves almost to the floor (a good two feet below her head), and her lashes fluttered in Tom’s direction in a well calculated wink. He was about to return the compliment when he was rudely interrupted by his table companion.

“Tom, this is the last time I let you choose the bar.”

Luke sat back on the cushions of the black leather sofa and took another sip of his chilled white wine. Every now and then he looked around, trying to find a balance between his natural curiosity and the feeling that he was completely out of his element. Another one of the girls, a tall one dressed like a sexy version of a 1920s flapper, waved at him from the other side of the room, and the restaurateur poured himself another glass of Chianti.

“When I told you I wanted to celebrate this month’s good figures, I was thinking of drinks at the pub, not…” he gestured around him, “not all this.”

“Luke, we always go for drinks at the pub! I wanted to do something different for one night.”

“Different for me, maybe. But the bouncer at the door knows your name. How did he know your name?”

“I’m a member”, muttered Tom distractedly, with his eyes fixed on the dancer who continued her gravity-defying movements up and down the pole. “I became a member a few months ago, one of my old Oxford mates introduced me. I need an outlet every now and then, you know we’ve been overworked lately.”

“I thought your _outlet_ was your long list of disposable conquests. Not that I’m keeping track of them, but there’ve been quite a few.”

“That’s not the same.” Tom placed the empty tumbler on the table; a moment later, one of the scantily clad waitresses brought him a full one. She was rewarded with a radiant smile and a generous tip. “Thanks so much, darling.”

“Well, if you’re a member, I hope at least you’re being discreet. The last thing we need is a double page on a tabloid with a huge picture of you with a stripper in your lap.”

“They prefer to be called exotic dancers. Have a bit of respect for the ladies, mate.”

“Sorry… an _exotic dancer_ on your lap, then”, Luke corrected himself. He didn’t want to keep arguing on what was supposed to be a fun night out, so he raised his glass towards Tom. “To the ongoing success of Band of Brothers. And to all the talented and incombustible dancers of this expensive and exclusive joint.”

Tom raised his own glass too, laughing heartily.

“Are you tipsy already, man? You’ve only had two glasses!”

“On an empty stomach, I’m afraid. And as soon as I finish this one I’ll be heading home… I still have to plan the personnel shifts for next month.” Now it was Luke’s turn to laugh at his disappointed friend. “Don’t worry! In a couple of weeks, once Hallie’s investment has been signed, we’ll have another celebration. Although it will have to be in a different venue, I don’t think she’d like the… decoration in this place.”

“Then we can finally go for a pint at your beloved pub”, retorted Tom. “I would offer my flat for the celebration party, but she’s already refused my invitation to go there once—”

“Showing a tremendous amount of good sense”, interrupted Luke.

Tom checked the stage again, where a group of five burlesque dancers were about to start a musical number involving a series of chairs.

“I really like Hallie, Luke. I don’t know what else to say to show you that I’m serious.”

“Serious? Is that why you spend your evenings at exotic clubs and your nights banging anything that moves?”

“Hey! I can’t live like a monk forever while I wait for Miss America to agree on a date!”

“Well, I’ve been living like a monk forever… I mean, for the last eight months, since Steven and I broke up. And I assure you it’s not a tragedy.” The music changed with the start of the burlesque show, and Luke reached for his jacket. “And that’s all for tonight, at least for me. But I’m already plotting my revenge: next time we go out you’re coming with me to The Shadow Lounge.”

Tom shrugged. “Fine. I promise to be the perfect wingman; at the end of the night you’ll have a dozen men falling at your feet.”

“With my luck… and with yours, they’ll probably fall at _your_ feet instead”, sighed Luke. “Well, have fun. But not too much. And, if you ever bring me here again, warn me in advance so I can think of some very fun, but at the same time very tasteful, jokes about tarts.”

“Goodnight, mate.”

Exactly five seconds after his friend had left, Tom’s view of the stage was blocked by the luscious curves of a pretty girl, dressed – or, to be more precise, undressed – in some champagne-toned lingerie that appeared to be entirely made of satin and lace.

“That’s a very interesting tattoo”, she purred, looking at the knife and fork inked on the back of Tom’s left hand. “Are you a chef?”

Tom’s smile widened. “As a matter of fact, I am. You must be reading my mind, darling.”

“Bettina.”

“A lovely name for a really enchanting woman. Nice to meet you, Bettina, I’m Tom.” He gestured to the empty seat next to him. “Would you like to have a drink with me?”

“Well, I just saw that your friend had left you alone, Tom”, the girl pouted. “And I was wondering if you would be interested in a private dance. They say it’s a very good cure for loneliness, you know?”

“I can’t believe it, darling, you’ve read my mind again! You have to tell me how you do that… you must be a psychic.”

“Why don’t you come with me to the Moulin Rouge room, and we can investigate how many of your thoughts I can read in the next ten minutes?”

Tom did a quick appraisal of the dancer’s assets – creamy skin, plump curves, blond hair –, grabbed his jacket in one hand and his drink in the other, and stood up almost at light speed.

“After you, darling Bettina.”

* * *

The lights almost blinded him at first. Strategically placed to backlight the dancers without really illuminating the room, they enhanced the illusion of the music, the expensive lingerie, the feminine body that practiced her undulating movements in front of him.

Bettina undid her garter belt, rotating her hips in a seemingly endless Möbius strip.

This wasn’t Tom’s first lap dance, of course, and his analytic mind couldn’t help noticing the tricks of the trade: the way the girl teased without touching, knowing exactly what light would hit her in every moment. The slow _deshabillé_ , one piece of lace garment after another, that always ended exactly a few seconds before the last note of the song.

Bettina’s bra straps slid off her round shoulders, one after the other. Tom had to make a mental effort, take a long swig of his drink, and give himself permission to enjoy the show the girl was putting on, as if it wasn’t just business for her and a fake ten-minute fantasy for him.

One of Bettina’s stockings fell to the marble floor, and the combination of whiskey, music and woman finally started to work. Tom left the empty tumbler on the table beside him and let his head fall back a little, observing the dancer’s evolutions through half closed lids.

How curious, he thought, that with the low lights and the constant movement, the blonde girl was starting to look more and more like…

_No._

His eyes snapped open, and his fingers curled over the burgundy velvet of his chair.

Sensing that her client was a tad distracted, Bettina dropped her bra. With the illusion finally dead, Tom reclined on his chair again, savoring the view. The show was what it was, a falsely intimate version of the pole acrobatics that happened in the next room. And if the girl looked more animated and cheerful than the other dead-eyed strippers (he chastised himself for using that word, even in his mind), it was because he was thirty-four, and drinking expensive whiskey, and obviously more pleasant to the eye than most of the middle-aged patrons of the club.

Bettina was a clever woman, and she could feel Tom’s attention drifting again. Dropping the knickers was almost an act of desperation to get him back into focus. 

It worked, though. She hadn’t been in exotic dancing for five years for nothing.

_What a gentleman_ , she thought after the music stopped and Tom handed her one of her stockings, the left one… that for some reason had landed on his lap during the dance.

_What a catch!_ she thought (a bit louder this time) when he offered her an astounding tip of a hundred pounds.

“I finish here at midnight”, she said when her speeding train of thought finally made the connection between her brain and her rosy red lips.

“Splendid. May I interest you in a late dinner?”

“There’s nothing open at that hour, not around here at least.”

“How unfortunate for you. You must end up ravenous after all those hours of dancing.”

“Well, not exactly”, she answered, biting her lip. “But we can always go somewhere else.”

“Well, as you very cleverly guessed before, I happen to know a thing or two about cooking. Since you have no appetite for a late dinner… I could make you an early breakfast”, finished Tom with a wink.

Bettina looked around the main room of the club. Apart from the three or four usual suspects, lonely and harmless, there was a group of middle aged City businessmen celebrating the divorce of one of them. A bit further away, their counterparts, twenty years younger: a stag party, right on the verge of being too loud and too drunk for the refined standards of White’s.

_What a drag_ , she thought, fishing the hundred quid note from the depths of her bra.

“You know, I don’t really accept tips. Why don’t you wait for me here, and when I’m finished you can show me your… cooking skills?”

Tom put the money back in his pocket, kissed the girl’s hand, and made his way to the table he had occupied with Luke a while before.

_What. A. Man_ , was the only thing Bettina’s muddled mind was able to articulate before falling asleep, several hours later, between the very soft and very expensive Egyptian cotton sheets of Tom’s bed.


	6. Earl Grey Tea and Swiss Meringue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops.   
> I said I was going to post chapter 6 before going away for the weekend, and I totally forgot. My bad! Anyway, here it is, with an extra dose of chocolate cake for all my readers for being so patient.

It was a quiet night at Band of Brothers. Service had ended without any complications, probably because the unusually warm weather had sent Londoners in search of parks, terraces and other places where they could enjoy an alfresco dinner.

Only two people remained in the empty kitchen: one of them was Connor, the pastry chef, with his white coat covered in stains (chocolate and blackberry were the worst offenders), and a permanent smile on his face. The other one was Hallie, so absorbed by what she was doing that she had completely forgotten about the hour.

“Am I whisking too fast?”

“No, that’s about right. Keep the movement gentle, and don’t forget to check that the water below is barely simmering, and that it never touches the pan.”

“Connor, don’t I need to use a thermometer for this?”

“Many people do… I have a thermometer in my kit somewhere, but I barely use it. In theory, the mix has to reach sixty degrees, but once you get the hand of it you’ll learn to see if it’s ready without needing to measure it. Just check that the caster sugar is completely dissolved.”

Connor peered over Hallie’s shoulder and checked the smooth, silky mixture in the pan.

“That looks about right, but it’s still very flat. Now pull it off the heat and beat it until it’s full of volume… or until your arm feels like it’s falling off.”

Hallie laughed. “I’m sure that’s why the reason electric mixers were invented. Pastry chefs needed both their arms to make more desserts.”

“Maybe. But once you learn to make it the traditional way, it’s easier to reach the right consistency with a mixer. Besides, what kind of teacher would I be if I didn’t make my student suffer a bit? A Kitchen Aid won’t get the proportions right, and it won’t tell you how much sugar to add either.”

The impromptu cooking class was momentarily interrupted when Tom, already out of his chef whites and holding his car keys, appeared in the kitchen. He usually was the last one to leave; but this time he found the kitchen occupied by her pastry chef, in full teacher mode, and his sous-chef, wearing a  _‘keep calm and kiss the cook’_  apron instead of her chef coat, and holding a whisk as if her life depended on it.

“What are you two still doing here? Service ended more than an hour ago, everybody else has left.”

“Not everybody, Luke is still in his office”, answered Connor. “Besides, tomorrow we open for dinner only, so there’s no hurry.”

“I wouldn’t follow Luke’s work schedule if I were you. You’ll end up completely stressed out and with no social life at all.” He left his leather jacket on the back of a chair and fidgeted with one of the zippers. “Ah, Hallie… good work with the Bouillabaisse; the flavour combination was perfect, it was everybody’s favorite dish today.”

Hallie smiled, trying not to lose her concentration. “Thanks so much, Tom. But I was only following your recipe, for the most part. I had the idea of adding a touch of chili, but you were the one who approved it.”

“In any case, you did great. Congratulations.” He took a look at the bowl. "Swiss meringue? That’s a hard one to get right.”

“Hallie wanted to learn how to make my dark chocolate cake with Swiss buttercream frosting. She hasn’t told me why yet, but it has to be a very important celebration, that cake is not for the faint of heart.”

“I want to bake something for my Mom’s birthday, and I really want to make it special.” She turned her back to the two men and kept whisking furiously to hide the blush on her cheeks. She hated lying to people, especially lying about Max, but a restaurant’s kitchen didn’t really seem the right place to give explanations about her life, her past, and her chocolate-loving seven year old boy.

Tom thought it was a little strange that Hallie was blushing about a meringue dessert, but Connor didn’t notice anything.

“Well, luv, in that case, let me go to the storage room and get you that thermometer. Mrs. Harrison deserves the best cake in the world!”

As the pastry chef walked out of the kitchen, Tom saw the chance he was waiting for.

“Hallie, speaking of cake… or, to be more precise, pie… the savory kind, I’ve been working on a new recipe of steak and ale pie, something I hope we can put on the menu soon. It’s a twist on a British classic, and I think people will…” he stopped, realizing he was starting to ramble. “Anyway. Would you like to come by my flat some day and give it a try? Luke has already tasted it, but I want you to give me your opinion. I’ll make it for dinner and you can help me put the finishing touches.”

Hallie stopped whisking.

“Ah… That sounds wonderful. But I’m not sure if I’ll have a free night anytime soon… I still have lots of paperwork to do, with the investment, the cookbook and everything… I don’t want to say yes and then cancel on you.”

“It’s alright, there’s no hurry. Just give me a call whenever you’re free, and I’ll get everything ready.”

“Okay, but I’m going to want that recipe, Tom. My mother loves steak and ale pie, and I’ve never made one, so I could really use a few tips.”

Tom ran his hand through his hair, satisfied that he’d managed to get an almost positive answer. “You mean you’ll want it if it’s good. It’s still in the experimental phase so far.”

“I’ve never seen you cook a bad dish. If you make it, I’m sure it will be fantastic.”

“Well then, I’ll leave you with your fabulous Italian meringue cloud”, he said, picking up his leather jacket.

“Swiss.”

“Swiss, of course. Oh, and please tell Monsieur le Patissière to leave my kitchen organized or tomorrow I’ll give _him_ a good whipping. Connor makes the most fantastic desserts, but tidying up is not his thing.”

“I will personally supervise the cleaning when we’re done. Goodnight, Tom. See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Hallie.”

She saw him leave through the back door of the restaurant, just when Connor came out of the storage room.

“Got it! I knew it had to be here, somewhere, because last week I looked for it at home and it couldn’t find it… but instead I found my old red Le Creuset cocotte that I thought I had misplaced, so it was a good thing anyway. Sorry for being such a disaster, Hal.”

“I thought patisserie was all about precision and order”, she laughed.

“It is, but we chefs tend to be contradictory people. Whenever I’m in the kitchen, I’m disciplined like a soldier… and then I stop being organized the moment I stop cooking; it’s a shame, but I’m just not good at keeping things where they should be.” He put the thermometer on the table, next to Hallie’s bag. “Hey, that meringue looks beautiful! I think you’re getting the hang of this, luv. I’m glad you don’t want to become a pastry chef, or I’d be out of a job in a month.”

“Don’t be silly, I still have a lot to practice.” She covered the fluffy concoction with plastic film and stored it in the refrigerator. “Connor, may I ask you something?”

“If it’s about my super-secret passionfruit macarons recipe, consider it yours. I know they’re your favorite, you ate three of them the other day.”

“The macarons were heavenly, but it’s not that.” She hesitated for a moment. “Hypothetically… If a chef asked you to his place to try a recipe, would it be considered a date or not?”

Connor’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “You’ve got a date?”

“That’s the problem, I’m not sure!”

“Is it Harrington Craig? I saw you arrive with him the other day. Girl, he’s a catch! Did you know that his father is the Baron Mountjoy?”

Of course, Hallie was completely oblivious to anything related to the British peerage, and she listened to the new information with genuine surprise.

“Wow, I’ve never met the son of a baron before. But anyway, I’m not telling you anything. Not until I’m sure what my date… or not date… will be like. Sorry.”

“It’s alright, luv. Just promise me that you’ll let me make your wedding cake. And that you will invite me, of course, especially if you get married at the Abbey.”

“Connor! I ask you about a cooking date and you’re already planning my wedding?” she laughed, pretending to be scandalized… but secretly relieved that the pastry chef had got the wrong man in mind. Something told her that Connor wouldn’t be so excited about the situation if he knew who her real date was.

* * *

A while later, when the kitchen had been cleaned up and all the dishes had been loaded in the dishwasher, Connor and Hallie walked towards the Sloane Square tube, each one holding a coffee cup from the Starbucks on Sloane Avenue. It was a beautiful night, warmer than it’s normal in London at the end of August; hordes of delighted tourists roamed the streets of Chelsea, taking random pictures with one or other of the historic buildings in the area.

“So, it seems you’re adapting perfectly to life in London… except for your Starbucks addiction, but that’s to be expected from an American”, joked Connor.

“Hey! You also got one, and you didn’t even have to look at the menu before ordering your cinnamon Frappuccino, so I think you’ve been there before quite a few times.”

“I admit the detour was worth it, this is delicious. I’m more inclined to tea, like a good Brit, of course, but one of this sugary horrors every once in a while is exactly what I need after a day of hard work.” He took a sip of the cool drink with obvious delight. “I’ve noticed Chef Tom has been quite charming with you; just don’t expect it to last forever, he can fall into one of his moods any day now. The man has been a nightmare of a boss since last year… but I guess he has his reasons. And he’s always a professional in the kitchen, so if you can endure a harsh word every now and then, I think you can work with him really well.”

“To tell you the truth, I was scared before meeting him. I had heard rumors that Tom can be… difficult sometimes, and I was half expecting him to go ballistic on me the first time I made a mistake. Still, he’s been perfectly nice to me, so it seems that particular lion is tamed.”

“Any other lions worth mentioning? Have you tried to use dollars instead of pounds at Sainsbury’s? Plugged anything into the plug without turning it on first?”

Hallie laughed so hard that she almost dropped her coffee.

“You’re being perfectly nasty today, Chef Thackeray! For your information, my Mom is British, so she’s bringing me up to date about everyday things I need to know… including those silly plugs that, God knows why, have a switch on them.” She noticed that a group of American tourists passed right by them, and the familiar voice inflections made her nostalgic. “I still feel a bit out of place some days, but I guess it’s normal. It was the same when I was eight and my whole family moved to California… only that, when you’re eight, it’s easy to make new friends. I remember some girls at my new school laughed at my Brit accent during the first week… so I asked my classmate Pam, who in the end would become my best friend Pam, to teach me 'American’ after school. She did, I stopped being the weird kid after a few weeks… and now I’d love to get my old accent back, and not stand out so much!”

“Don’t worry, luv. Most people here like Americans… and everybody will like _you_ , I’m sure. Including Tom. Today you earned some praise from him, and that’s almost a miracle. Just give him a few more weeks and he’ll be your number one fan.”

Hallie concentrated on her Starbucks cup, not wanting Connor to know about the conversation she’d had with Tom that same day. She was genuinely fond of the pastry chef, and he was the closest thing to a best friend she had managed to make in her few weeks in London… but she didn’t dare to trust him that much yet. As they entered the Tube turnstiles, she hoped that a change of topic would steer the conversation away from the mercurial Chef Hiddleston.

“I guess it’s just the sudden change of continents what makes me feel like a stranger. Have you always lived in London, Connor?”

“Yep. East Ender, born and bred. In fact, I was almost born in the back of a black cab, because my Mum was in the middle of teaching a class and she didn’t ask my father to take her to the hospital until the last possible moment.”

“What a badass Mom!”

“More than you think”, he laughed. “As for feeling out of place…   well, my father happens to be Afro-Caribbean and my Mum is whiter than you. Let’s just say had a couple of moments of self-doubt when I was a kid.”

Hallie’s cheeks reddened with embarrassment. “And here I am talking nonstop, with my big mouth and my white girl problems! I’m sorry, Connor, you must think I’m a complete prat.”

“Not at all, luv. Hey, did you just say 'prat’? You’re catching up on the slang very fast, we’ll have you talking proper English in a couple of months”, he said, squeezing Hallie’s shoulder with a friendly wink.

“Did you say that your mother was a teacher?” she asked, forcing yet another turn in the conversation after her embarrassing _faux pas_. “My Mom taught Art and History in a high school back in California, until she retired last Spring.”

“Really? Oh, that’s brilliant! Yeah, both my parents are teachers. When your Mum gets here I’ll tell my folks to invite her to tea. I’m sure they’re going to love her… and they can help her reconnect with her old memories of London.” The tube train was arriving, so he threw the empty Frapuccino cup in a nearby recycle bin. “Actually, my Dad studied to be an engineer in Guyana, but when he came here looking for a job the only position he could find was in an East End state school. He didn’t like it much at first, but then… well, some things happened, and he’s been teaching at the same place for more than thirty five years, so you can say he grew to love the place.”

“The place… and your mother too, I’m guessing.”

“My Mum helped, of course. She started as an assistant, and now she’s head teacher of the entire school. You have to visit it someday, Hallie, it has improved so much in the last decades! My Dad was the first Black teacher to work there, and now it looks like the United Nations.”

“Sounds like an exciting place to study. Did you go there?”

“Of course! Oh, my friends loved taking the mickey out of me for being Mr. Thackeray’s kid. But it was all in good fun.”

“And what did your parents think of you becoming a chef?”

“Well, that… that was a bit hard on them, I think. Everything at my house was so focused on the academic that when I said I wanted to make desserts for a living they freaked out a little. In the end they allowed me to get my degree in culinary arts, but only if I did a postgraduate course in education afterwards. I guess they saw it as a safeguard in case I didn’t find a good job at a restaurant.”

“So you’re really a–”

“A Cordon Bleu-certified pastry chef, fair and square. But if I ever want to retire from the soufflés and the petit fours, I’m qualified to teach at any state-maintained school. And some very lucky kids would have the coolest Home Ec teacher in the whole country.”

“That’s really impressive, Connor. Your parents must be very proud of your success… and a bit shocked that you chose this profession.”

“Not as shocked as the day I brought my first boyfriend to tea. I thought Mum was going to faint when she saw me with Sean! But they were okay with it in the end… and anyway, that story is better when I tell it in front of a pint, not a cup of Starbucks. Oh, we’re almost at my stop, luv. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget to practice that meringue!”

“Until my arm falls off. Pinkie promise!” she added, lifting a finger.

A pleasant, automated voice could be heard in the busy coach.

_This station is Aldgate. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform._

Hallie saw her friend leave the train, looked at the Tube map above her, and mentally counted the number of stops left (only three) until her destination. She was more than a bit tired, and she still had to decide what to answer Tom about their date… or not date. She felt happier in London than she had been in years, but the idea of dating again after eight years of solitude had just put a very big knot in her stomach.

* * *

Harrington Craig had always had zero interest in interior decoration. All the elegant furniture in his flat, along with every inch of curtains, towels, bedclothes and carpeting, had been carefully chosen by his sister Georgiana, in a record amount of time after Harry’s divorce.

What had been his (and Charlotte’s) house in Kensington was sold immediately, because he didn’t want to keep living there alone. The house that had been designed for a future family seemed ominous and empty with just one man in it, and the huge garden in the back, where Charlotte had given her famous parties, was just a useless green space to him.

Fortunately for Harry, his favorite sister was also the owner of the prestigious Liddell Art Gallery; she had all the good taste in the world, and absolutely no sympathies for her former sister-in-law. Georgiana had helped him choose a new luxury flat in St. Katharine’s Docks, and decorated it in a simple and modern style, much more suited to Harrington’s personality than his opulent old house.

Despite all her brilliant efforts, Harry’s favorite feature in the flat had nothing to do with the furniture: it was the view over the Thames, which could be seen from the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Observing the water, the boats, the people… it soothed him after the long hours at the restaurant, and it even had inspired a couple of fish dishes on his menu.

In the calm that followed a delicious dinner (cooked by Harry), the aforementioned view displayed all the beauty of a London sunset in front of his eyes, while the aforementioned sister was busy in the kitchen, making tea.

“I feel bad letting you do that, Georgie”, he said out loud. “After all, you’re the guest, I should be the one serving you tea.”

“Nonsense, little brother. I already let you make dinner, but tea is my realm. You may be a genius with your molecular gastronomy and all that, but when it comes to making a good cuppa, you know you take after Mother. She’s been in this country for fifty years and she’s still not able to brew anything drinkable.” The tall brunette woman appeared, with a tray in her hands, and served two cups of the aromatic drink.

“On the other hand, Mother’s Italian blood has provided you and me with an innate appreciation for art and beauty, so I can forgive her silly habit of sipping coffee at all hours, instead of drinking tea like a sensible person would do”, she finished, adding a subtle cloud of milk to Harry’s cup and setting it in front of him.

'Sensible’ was indeed the right word to describe the Honorable Georgiana Mary Craig. Tall and androgyne, dressed in a pair of comfortable black slacks and a masculine blazer, she looked exactly like a grown-up Gavroche. Only the subtle touches of red on her lips and nails revealed some tiny hints of conventional femininity; she and Harrington had the same crystalline blue eyes, dark hair, Aquiline features… and especially the same way of looking at the world, which since childhood had made them allies against the more conventional ways of the rest of the Craig family.

Georgiana’s weekly visits were a way of making sure that her brother was adjusting to living alone; unlike their other sisters, all married or (in the case of the youngest one) engaged, she valued her personal freedom above all things, and she understood that a solitary life could be very upsetting when it was an imposition and not a choice.

“You’re awfully quiet today, Harry”, she observed, taking a small bite of her teacake. “You’ve been like that since I asked you if you had met someone lately… Which means you have either very good news or very bad ones. Am I wrong?”

“You should leave the art gallery and get work as a private detective”, answered Harry with a smirk. “But maybe I’m quiet because I have no news at all.”

“Aha! Evasive!” said Georgiana triumphally. “You have something to tell… but you’re afraid to jinx it. Or maybe you think I won’t like her. But, since I’m the only member of the family who’s willing to discuss these things with you, and even give you some advice, I think you’d better take the chance and speak.”

Harrington let out a small sigh of defeat, but he was smiling. He knew his inquisitive sister wasn’t going to leave him alone until he confessed.

“You’re a pest, Georgie. A pest and a genius: yes, I’ve met someone. A lovely woman, who also happens to be a chef. But I haven’t done anything yet, it’s too soon…”

“You’ve been divorced for six months, Harry, and you haven’t seen anyone since. Our ten year old niece has a more interesting love life than you, so think of a better excuse.”

“And there are some complications…”

“Does she have anything against young men who own their own restaurant and are children of a peer of England? Or maybe she’s one of those New Age vegan chefs and won’t give you the time of day until you’ve stopped eating meat?”

“She works for Tom.”

Georgiana reclined on her chair, holding her teacup. “Oh, poor Tom. Good old Tommy. He was such a clever boy when we were kids! Who was to know that both of you would end up as bitter enemies after falling in love with that heartless whore?”

“Georgie!”

“What? I can’t call her that in front of our parents. Or our sisters… the other day I said 'darn’ when Minnie’s girls were in the room, and she looked at me as if I was a juvenile delinquent or something.” She rearranged the tiny teacakes on her plate and continued with her tirade. “Look, you know I’ve always been fond of Tommy, but he has his own demons to battle, and he’s not entitled to that woman just because she works for him. If you think the lady chef likes him, forget about the whole matter. But if you think she likes _you_ , and if you’ve seriously decided that she could be the one, then call her. Tonight. Don’t let things escalate into another awful and vulgar love triangle.”

“Georgie, I really appreciate your advice, but I’m not sure if she will…”

“Then find out! Call her and ask her out to dinner, or lunch, or whatever! Come on, Harry. You know Father wants a few more grandchildren, and Heaven knows I’m not exactly the motherly type.”

“Our father has five granddaughters so far. Enough to guarantee that there will be Craig blood in England for centuries to come.”

“You said it, _granddaughters_. All girls. The old man pretends he doesn’t care, but to his Edwardian subconscious it’s not the same at all; he won’t be happy until his only boy has a boy of his own, so you better start wooing that lady chef of yours.” She finished her cake and looked at her watch, alarmed. “Golly! I have a date in exactly an hour, and I still have to go home and change. André may be the bohemian artsy type, but I can’t go out with him looking like a junkyard.”

Harrington stood up and started picking up the cups and saucers.

“Since we’re making predictions about each other’s sentimental life, let me take an educated guess: André is a painter?”

“Sculptor. Very young and very promising.”

“So young and so promising that you’re ashamed of introducing him to Mother and Father?”

“Absolutely. In fact, he’s so avant-garde and brilliant that I won’t even introduce him to you. But he’s a lot of fun, at least for now.”

She gave Harrington a quick hug and practically ran out of the flat; he still heard one more faint 'call your lady chef’ from the elevator, which made him laugh. Georgiana always made him laugh… and she was also the voice of his conscience, always overwhelmingly right.

Leaving the tea tray and the dinner dishes for the housekeeper, he went to his room and stared at the phone for a minute, wondering if it would be the right time for such an important call. The last time he had asked a woman out he had ended up gaining a wife, losing a friend, fighting a divorce and losing his faith in romance… all in that order.

He finally decided to do the dishes himself, and call a while later.

* * *

Tom’s flat at the Barbican was not as beautifully decorated as Harrington’s home, but the view from the top of the 42 storey tower was absolutely breathtaking. His was the biggest (and the most expensive) penthouse in the whole estate, and on a clear day one could see practically all of London’s most famous landmarks, including the Houses of Parliament, Canary Wharf, the Crystal Palace and St Paul’s Cathedral.

Not that the chef enjoyed the view too much, though.

Since his tryst with the exotic dancer the week before, something was off. Every day he went to the restaurant, returned home, ignored a few calls from one girl or other, and went to bed feeling empty and deflated. Lather, rinse, repeat. Even food was starting to lose taste… the worst thing that could happen to a chef.

When he had started shagging one woman after another, it had been a conscious effort to forget about Charlotte by not letting himself think too much. Give a try to every woman available, to see if, by pure chance, he was able to find someone interesting again. It was that or drinking himself dumb from heartbreak and frustration, and he had lost count of how many alcoholic chefs he had worked with; it was an easy habit to fall into, working in a place where bottles of wine were always around.

Instead, he found solace in a string of vapid dates with a series of equally vapid women. Because he always met them in clubs or bars, their only appeal for him was their exterior; but after two or three dates, when things reached the conversation stage, everything went to shit.

He didn’t realize the real reason why no girl was interesting enough for him; when Charlotte left him ( _betrayed_ was the word that always came to his mind), he had built a wall out of anger and resentment, a wall that didn’t let him see past a woman’s pert arse or tight clothes. That same barrier had the double effect of making him dull and shallow to his conquests, so they got bored with him almost as fast as he got tired of them.

No heartbreak, no harm done. Only a big nothing where his feelings used to be.

After leaving Hallie and Connor at Band of Brothers he’d had dinner alone on the balcony, forcing himself to enjoy the breeze of the warm night. He refilled his glass of red wine and lit the last cigarette in the packet, taking long puffs, trying to let go of the worries of the day and the torturous racing of his own mind.

Suddenly, his mobile phone rang with a loud, upbeat song, prompting him to decide two things: one, that he needed a new, less irritating ringtone; and two, that if it was Bettina calling again he should start considering getting a new number. The girl had already called him four times that day, clearly too smitten to realize that Tom had no real interest in her once her _dancing_ abilities had been spectacularly displayed for a couple of exhausting (and very acrobatic) nights.

He grabbed the phone, almost turned it off before looking at the caller’s ID, and then he almost let it slip from his hand when he read the name on the screen.

“Hallie?” He managed to make his voice sound calmed, just in the nick of time.

“Hi, Tom. I hope I didn’t wake you up?”

“No, of course not, I… I was working late, trying to come up with some ideas for the winter menu”, he lied. “How did the rest of your lesson go?”

“Fantastic. We were practically finished when you left. But I feel like I’m an expert in meringue now… Only in theory, of course, but I still have a lot of time to get it right.”

“Connor is a very good teacher. I don’t know if he told you, but he’s an actual teacher, apart from a brilliant pastry chef.”

“Yes, we were just talking about that today.”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, and then Hallie’s voice sounded hesitant, almost shaky.

“Tom, about what you said today… the dinner… the pie thing?”

“The pie thing, yes.” Tom leaned on the concrete balcony, mentally bracing himself for the expected rejection. “It really doesn’t have to be anything formal, you just have to drop by and I can cook you some…”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll go.”

“Ah… yes? Yes! Brilliant!” He tried to land the cigarette stub on the ashtray, but it ended up on the balcony floor. “How about next Sunday? Band of Brothers is closed on Monday, of course, so we’ll have time to…”

“Sunday sounds perfect. Would you let me bring dessert? It would be silly to practice my cake-making skills if I don’t have a Guinea pig to try them first. I was thinking something with berries, and white chocolate, and maybe a…”

Tom closed his eyes and let Hallie speak about sponge cakes, varieties of frosting and degrees of sweetness, enjoying the flood of ideas as much as the sound of her voice. For the first time in weeks a sincere, carefree smile appeared on his lips.

* * *

Exactly at the same time Tom was having this happy conversation, a different chef, in a different part of London, dialed Hallie’s number three times. Slightly disappointed to find that the line was busy, and that the lady chef didn’t have her voicemail activated, Harrington Craig turned off his phone, took a last look at the beautiful sight of the Thames at night, and went straight to bed.


	7. A First Date and an Italian Feast

"You did what?"

Luke's deep voice sounded unusually high-pitched in the empty space of his office. It was three hours before lunch service, and his friend and business partner had just arrived to Band of Brothers with very surprising news. He put aside his laptop and his papers, abandoning all pretense of work.

Tom closed the door carefully, not wanting to startle his friend even more, and sat down on the other side of the cluttered desk.

"It's just dinner, mate. Something informal and relaxed, to break the ice. There's a chance that nothing will happen."

"A chance in hell", scoffed Luke. "At least tell me you're not taking her to that bachelor pad you call your flat."

"Excuse you, my flat happens to be one of the most exclusive places in the city, and to call it 'bachelor pad' is nothing short of an insult. Besides, we're not going there. Hallie thought it would be better if we chose a more neutral ground for our first date."

"So, the originally planned 'work evening' were you two were going to try some new recipes has transformed into The First Date... I wonder why." The restaurateur took out his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. "Tom, when was the last time I asked you a favor in the name of the long years of our friendship?"

"Last week. You asked me to babysit your mother's canary because she was going to visit your aunt in Brighton, and you're allergic to birds."

"Okay, that doesn't count, it was only for one day. Now, I'm going to _really_ appeal to the undying bond of friendship between us, and ask you to do one simple thing."

"I'm all ears."

"Don't fuck this up or I'll kill you."

A hearty laugh was Tom's first reaction, until he noticed that Luke seemed sincerely concerned.

"Come on, you've never been a violent man. Are you going to kill your best friend for the possibility of a date gone wrong?"

"I'm going to make your life a living hell if you don't do everything in your power to make that date go right", said Luke, only half joking. "I want you to be the perfect fucking gentleman, or we risk losing the best chef we've hired in years. And with that chef goes our business, because we can't afford any more bad press, Thomas."

The use of his full name finally made Tom understand that his friend was dead serious, and more than a bit unsettled by the situation. He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

"Look, mate, Hallie and I have developed a great working relationship. You were right since the beginning! She's a cook with a lot of potential, and I do want her to stay here and work with me for the foreseeable future."

"Good." Distractedly, the restaurateur picked a fountain pen from his desk, screwing and unscrewing the cap several times.

"But I also want something more, Luke... I like her."

"That's the part that worries me. I'd happily go back to a few weeks ago, when you could barely stand the idea of her working at Band of Brothers with you." Putting the fountain pen down, Luke got up and opened a small cupboard to reveal one of his few guilty pleasures, a small Nespresso machine."Ristretto?"

"Livanto, thank you; I already had a cup of  black coffee this morning. And you have no reason to be worried, I'm..." Tom hesitated, searching for the right words. "I feel like I need a change, and this may be the moment to make it happen."

"You've been _changing_ girls every week for the last year. What you need is some stability, and if you think Hallie is the one able to give you that... fine. But I'll repeat it again: please don't fuck this up. If you don't want to do it for the business, at least do it for my nerves."

"I promise your nerves will be my first priority during the whole date."

"So, where are you taking her? You can't take a good chef to a bad restaurant. If I'm allowed to make suggestions, Osteria would be the perfect place. Good Italian food, a view over the Barbican lakeside terrace... and it's a minute away from your place, so you two can have some wine without worrying about driving after."

Tom's face lit up instantly. "That's brilliant! I had thought of suggesting an Italian place, but I completely forgot about Osteria. Who's head chef now, Patrick Leano?"

"Exactly, and to make things even more eventful it turns out I met him last week at a wine auction. I can call him and see that you get a good table."

"Luke, you're the real life version of a fairy godmother."

The blond man replaced his glasses and tried to look stern. "If this date is not a success, I'll be the real life version of the Wicked Witch of the West for you. Do something, _anything_ to upset that girl and I'll send all my flying monkeys after you."

"I'll be an angel!" answered Tom with a cheeky smile. He finished buttoning up his chef coat and left straight for the kitchen, passing Luke's assistant midway through the corridor.

"Shirley, darling! Beautiful morning, isn't it?"

The young woman let out a sound that could mean either greeting or disapproval, and went into the office to find Luke enjoying a cup of his favorite coffee.

"What the hell is wrong with Chef Tom today? And how many cups of that mega strong coffee have you given him?"

"Wrong? He looked perfectly fine to me."

"He looked happy", she whispered in a conspiratory tone. "Almost like an ordinary, living person, with a heart inside his chest and everything. Not that I care, I was just... well, curious."

"He's got a date tonight."

"He's got a date _every_ night", she scoffed. "Sometimes two in one day. And the morning after, when his bed goes cold again, he returns to his usual sulky self and makes all our lives miserable."

"A date with Hallie."

Shirley looked at his boss as if he had gone completely mad. "And you've let him do that? It will be a total bloody disaster!"

"I can't forbid them to go out together, Shirley, they're both adults!" He finished his cup of Ristretto and paced around the room. "The truth is, I haven't seen him so happy and focused in months. Ever since Hallie arrived he's been more and more..."

"Normal?" offered Shirley with a smirk.

"Normal, if you like. He hasn't even mentioned Harrington Craig in days; do you know how hard it is to make Tom forget his obsession with him?"

Shirley grabbed some of the papers that lay around Luke's desk, and started putting them in order. "My aunt Aiesha used to say that every person needs an enemy to measure up to."

"That may be true, but I'd live happier if that enemy wasn't the owner of the restaurant across the street", he said, looking outside through the window which happened to give him a perfect view of the rival business. "You know, Craig also happened to be a friend of mine before the situation with Tom forced me to choose between them."

"Then I'm glad things are getting better, boss." Having finished with the papers, the woman opened her own laptop and switched it on. "And, if in a near future you need someone to hand over an olive branch to Harrington Craig's restaurant, I volunteer... but only if I can deliver it to him in person."

Now it was Luke's turn to look at Shirley as if she was insane.

"You... you like Harry Craig? Why? And... since when? Has everybody on this restaurant been drinking love potions while I wasn't looking?"

"Boss, are you blind? That man is any woman's dream come true! He's hot, charming, rich... and single, now that the tabloids say his divorce is over. Also, I tried his food a few weeks ago, on Taste of London, and it was so scrummy I almost fainted."

Luke lifted an eyebrow, unable to react to this new piece of information about his usually serious and efficient assistant. "Please tell me that I won't have to worry about _you_ defecting to work for our most competitive rival."

"Of course not! Working for you is too much fun, and unlike our dear star chef I don't like mixing business and pleasure. But hey, if the competition gets too bitter, and you need someone to seduce Chef Craig and distract him a little bit... I'm your woman", she joked.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you say that", laughed Luke. "And now, if we're through discussing everybody's potential love life, I think we should do a projection of our taxes for the last quarter of the year. According to the provisional numbers you sent me yesterday, things are looking up."

"Things are looking wonderful, boss", said Shirley, examining a spreadsheet full of charts and calculations." If we keep this rate of income for the rest of the year, we'll be able to open a Band of Brothers franchise. Or two."

"Awesome. Now I'll have to think about the possibility of making a clone of Tom to man all those other restaurants."

Shirley wrinkled her nose in a moue of disgust. "I think there's more than enough with only one Chef Hiddleston in the world, thank you very much... so I suggest we abandon the idea of branching out. Now, about that raise you wanted to give the kitchen staff next January..."

* * *

 

"You did what?"

Hallie closed the pantry's door very quickly and without noise.

"Shhhh! Not so loud, Connor! Tom is in the kitchen, he'll hear you!"

"I don't care! Why are you going out with him, of all people?"

"I told you I had a sort of... date, remember?"

"Yes, but I thought you meant with Chef Craig!"

Hallie crossed her arms and leaned on a cupboard. "Connor, what person in her own mind would go on a date with a business rival? Besides, Harry is a lovely man, but he's just... I mean, he doesn't..."

The pastry chef put his hands up, defeated.

"Don't say another word. If Craig doesn't tickle your... fancy, so to speak, then you have nothing to do with him. But why Tom? He may be the best chef in town, and I don't want to speak ill of my boss, but you could have chosen a less problematic man, missy."

"I don't think it's something you can _choose_. At least not in my case."

'In that case, more power to you, luv. Just one word of advice: I don't know what men are like in California... but don't forget that Tom has a past, and it haunts him."

"We all have a past, Connor", sighed Hallie. "Yes, even me. And I've also let it haunt me for too long, but not anymore."

Realizing that the conversation was reaching an uncomfortable place, Connor put his arm around his friend's shoulders to reassure her.

"Hey. Forget I said anything, luv. I've been single for more than a year, so I'm not the best candidate to lecture you about what you should do with your dating life. Let's go back to the kitchen before Tom realizes he's cooking alone and starts looking for us."

"Have I told you that you're the best new friend I've ever made?"

"I'll wear that as a badge of honor. And when will this Dinner Date of the Year take place?"

"Next Sunday. No idea where we're going, I've let Tom choose the restaurant... but you can help me choose a dress if you want."

"Something sexy and scandalous? I'll be delighted. You'll knock him off his feet."

"Sexy and scandalous for date number one? Boy, things are really different in England!"

* * *

 

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

Tom allowed himself five seconds between one series and the next and then started again, the muscles of his arms and legs fighting against the resistance of the rowing machine. One, two, three, four... again, and again, until his body started to ache and complain.

He had been a constant visitor of the Barbican gym since the day he had moved to the Estate. At first alone, then with Charlotte during the short couple of months she had moved in with him... and after that alone, again, after she left him, not counting the string of conquests he usually made among the estate residents. He usually visited very early in the morning (the gym opened at 6am), four or five days a week.

What he really loved about the place, apart from the opportunities to be better acquainted with several of his female neighbours, was that exercising created a sort of Zen state on his mind; the long hours of work at the restaurant usually left him mentally exhausted, and the gym provided the perfect environment to empty his brain of the stress and the negative thoughts.

A few yards away from Tom, a tall Black woman on the elliptical bike across the gym floor looked at him with a certain amount of disdain. Slowly, with calculated movements, she climbed down from the machine, picked up her towel and her water bottle, and left for the changing rooms. In the last possible moment she turned around for a last dismissive glance, checking that Tom was still looking at her.

He was, but not for the usual reasons. And the incredibly beautiful woman had a very good motive to feel offended, because she had been the first woman Tom had rejected in many, many months.

Her name was Danielle, she'd said. New resident at Cromwell House. It was nice to meet a neighbour, especially one who loved exercising like her. Oh, she would love a tour of the most interesting parts of the Estate... in exchange for coffee, of course! she had continued, flashing him a more-than-friendly smile.

She had been very impressed when he told her he lived in the top floor of Shakespeare Tower. There was this non written status rule in the Estate, like in many other places: most of the residents of the towers looked down on the residents of the blocks. Also, within any of the buildings, the inhabitants of the top floors were regarded as slightly superior (or wealthier, which they probably were) than the people who lived in the lower floors. It only made sense within the microcosm of the Barbican, of course: even the smallest studio flat in any of the block Houses was more expensive than a tree bedroom house in Hammersmith or in Hackney. Living in the Square Mile was a very clever, if expensive, way of shutting most of London out.

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Tom's muscles had been complaining before, but now they were starting to form a union and organize a real protest. He kept rowing, a bit faster than before.

It was only after the gorgeous Danielle had offered him coffee for a second time that he actually put into words his rejection... and she hadn't taken it too well, what made him think that his reputation among the female component of the Barbican had already reached the point of maximum expansion. She had flashed him a tight-lipped smile and returned to her bike, trying to look like nothing had happened, and leaving Tom to muse about the changes he was about to experience in his life.

If it wasn't for the date with Hallie, he would have said yes to Danielle and her... _coffee_... or whatever she meant instead of that. Maybe they would have ended up making out in one of the changing rooms, like he had done with two... no, three other women in three previous occasions before taking each of them to enjoy the view from his 42nd store penthouse.

One, two, three, four. Only a few more reps to go.

He didn't regret the date, in fact he was looking forward to it very much. It was just the feeling of lost opportunities, of the calculated risk of tying himself to a girl that could very well be another Charlotte Rhodes...

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. The protest had turned into a Labour Day demonstration for his sufficiently sore muscles, so he stopped rowing. It was clear that no amount of exercise was going to clear his mind, but at least he was tired enough to go to sleep now.

His muscles ached. Change was hard.

* * *

 

The head server at Osteria was more than a bit nervous that night, but that little fact didn't keep him from dedicating all his attention to the two VIP guests that his boss had asked him to treat like royalty. Culinary royalty, to be precise. He already had seated them on one of the best tables, one with a view over the Barbican lake terrace, and offered them a complimentary cocktail, courtesy of the house.

His hand didn't shake while he placed the antipasti on the table: burrata with heirloom tomatoes and watermelon for the young lady, and carpaccio of sea bream with orange and fennel for Chef Hiddleston.

Ironically, the waiter had recognized Hallie first, because the face of the Masterchef winner had been all over the Food channel in the weeks following her victory in the contest. As for Chef Hiddleston, the waiter knew of his fame, of course, and had heard all kinds of wonders about his restaurant in Chelsea, but he had never seen him in person before.

With quick and fluid movements he checked that the two plates were facing the right direction, that the wine glasses had been refilled, and that the dining couple didn't need any more grissini. The night was running like clockwork, so the young man straightened his back and turned his attention to his other, less important guests.

Back at the table, Hallie covered her mouth with her hand to avoid laughing, and Tom looked at her with an amused expression on his face.

"Wow. The guy's more than a bit pompous, don't you think?" he asked Hallie.

"When he turned around I was almost expecting to see a clockwork key sticking out from his back", she answered, trying a small bite of her burrata.

Tom laughed, not for the first time that evening. Dinner was going well so far, no awkward silences or uncomfortable questions. Because they didn't want to end up talking about work, or Band of Brothers, they had agreed to leave the culinary topics for later. Especially Tom, who once or twice in the previous months had seen his dinner dates ruined because the women had started talking about molecular cuisine, what invariably led the conversation to Aeon... and Harrington Craig. It was a risk he didn't want to take, even if it meant not talking about food altogether.

He refilled Hallie's glass of Tuscan wine, not waiting for the clockwork server to be back.

"So, you were telling me that you studied World Arts and Culture at UCLA. Sounds like a fascinating career, but a bit removed from what you've ended up doing."

"Well, yes. I wanted to get a BA in Arts, like my mother, maybe become a teacher like her... but it wasn't my thing, I guess. I left during my sophomore year and started helping my Dad with his business." She sipped her chilled wine, hoping that Tom didn't ask further questions about why she had dropped out. "The truth is, I liked the work a lot. I discovered I was very good at sales, even if what I was selling was boring agricultural machinery for the vineyards. I loved working with my father... and then with my brother Frank, when Dad passed away a year later."

"I'm so sorry", answered Tom with a furrowed brow. "It must have been hard to lose him so young."

"It was very sudden... a heart attack. Mom was the strongest of us all, she insisted that we should keep the business alive to honor Dad's memory. At first we were scared that it wouldn't survive without him, but we managed. Especially Frank, he's been doing a fantastic job for years." Hallie took another bite of her salad, relieved that the conversation was giving her a way out. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"Two sisters. One older, one younger. They're both married, which makes me the black sheep of the family. The older one has two kids, and every time they come to London they love to visit my restaurant and play at the kitchen. I have very high hopes for them."

The stiff server, looking a bit more relaxed now that his guests seemed to be enjoying their dinner a lot, approached the table with their entrées. Tom offered Hallie a bite of his beef tagliata with rocket and parmesan.

"Oh, that's fantastic! Can we sneak into the kitchen after dinner and steal the recipe? I know we don't cook Italian at Band of Brothers, but I would make this at home every week if I could. The Parmesan sauce is so good!"

"I'm not very well acquainted with Chef Leano, but maybe I'll be able to make him confess his secrets. It may take a bit of teamwork: you'll have to tie him up before I interrogate him. Deal?"

Hallie's bright laugh tinkled in Tom's ears, a bit louder than the classical ambient music of the elegant Italian restaurant.

The rest of the dinner passed in animated conversation. Tom tasted Hallie's panna cotta with raspberries, and declared that the one she and Connor cooked at Band of Brothers (an adaptation of her winning dessert in Masterchef) was better. Hallie agreed to kidnap the chef of Osteria for a second time and steal the recipe of the Amalfi lemon tart with mascarpone gelato, and even the server gave them a hint of a smile when he took away their empty dessert plates.

Tom took a closer look at Hallie while the waiter was serving them coffee. The wine had brought a lovely shade of pink to her cheeks; and her green dress, despite the modest décolletage, showcased her figure much better than a shapeless chef coat.

When the last drops of black, bitter espresso touched his tongue, he closed his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so relaxed, so comfortable during a date. Maybe it was the fact that they had a real shared interest, a passion for food, a need for combining ingredients in new and innovative ways... in one word, for creating. For making art in a field that seemed so prosaic and boring to so many people.

"...and that's why the cat is called Scotty", finished Hallie, not realizing that Tom's attention had wandered for a few seconds.

"I like that name", said Tom with a smile, mentally kicking himself for not paying attention to the feline anecdote. "You must introduce me to Scotty sometime. I'm more of a dog person myself, but I like all kinds of animals."

The head server was back, and this time his stiffness had disappeared completely, over the satisfaction of a work well done. He delivered the bill and also Chef Leano's compliments, with the promise that the expert in Italian food would pay a visit to Band of Brothers very soon.

"Tell him that we... that Chef Harrison and I will be delighted to cook for him, and I hope he'll enjoy his dinner as much as we've enjoyed ours tonight", answered Tom while he paid the bill and left a very generous tip.

"Wow, you're a real charmer... when you want to be. Now we'll spend weeks not being able to sleep while we prepare everything for his visit", remarked Hallie. "Are you always this nice to other chefs? I thought this was supposed to be a cut-throat world... and you, a ruthless chef who loved to squash the competition."

"Have you considered that my bad boy reputation might be a bit exaggerated, Chef Harrison?"

"The good parts or the bad ones, Chef Hiddleston?"

"How about both?" he answered, with a low chuckle that sent butterflies to Hallie's stomach.

* * *

 

Tom accompanied Hallie to the door of her block. Except for the Italian restaurant on the second floor, the Barbican Centre was practically deserted, being a Sunday; and the owner of The Shakespeare, the put on the corner of the nearby Golden Lane estate, was already closing its doors and politely asking his customers to leave when the couple of chefs walked past it.

"We should come to this pub sometime", observed Hallie. "They're The Shakespeare and we're Band of Brothers, I'm sure we can become friends. Literary friends."

"It was Luke who chose the name for our restaurant, really", answered Tom. "He was a hopeless Shakespeare geek when we were at Oxford. But I suppose that if you live in London you just get used to finding Shakespeare references everywhere."

"Well, here we are."

The uncomfortable silence only lasted for a second or two before Tom reacted. After all, the experience of dating hundreds of women had to be worth something.

"Speaking of the Shakespeare: we could have dinner here next week. Looks great for a good first taste of the authentic British pub food... if you feel like it."

"That sounds wonderful." There was a hint of blush on Hallie's cheeks, caused in part for the wine and in part for the fact that the suddenly intimate situation in the middle of the empty street.

They were close to each other now, so close that Tom caught a whiff of her perfume (something like white lily, maybe), and Hallie realized that Tom's blue eyes had an almost steel grey tint in the cold light of the street lamps.

He captured her lips with his delicately, without hurry. Hallie noticed that Tom tasted like the espresso he'd had at the end of the meal. She wasn't sure what to do with her hands at first, so she ended up putting them around his neck. Tom slid his hands towards Hallie's waist. She was soft, pliable and delicious in his arms... letting him command the kiss until the need for air made them separate a fraction of an inch.

Now Hallie was blushing even more, so much that he could feel the heat radiating from her. The idea of inviting himself in crossed his mind, but a different situation required a different approach, so he didn't say anything. He took half a step back, still with a hand on Hallie's waist. For some reason, his own body refused to let go of her, even if his mind had decided otherwise. He took a deep breath.

"Well... ah... goodnight, Chef Harrison."

"Goodnight, Chef Hiddleston. And thank you for a wonderful dinner."

* * *

 

Hallie climbed the stairs to the second floor, where her flat was, with a hand over her beating heart. She hadn't been so nervous about the final moments of a date in years.

"Harriet Belinda Harrison! What are you doing home so early? I remember very clearly that I told you to have fun."

"I've had a lot of fun, Mom", she laughed, greeting her mother with a kiss on the cheek.

"And where's your Michelin star chef, then? Didn't you ask him in for a cup of coffee or something? Don't tell me you're ashamed of knowing that you live with your mother."

"I can't bring him here on the first date, Mom."

"Only God knows why you've turned out so conservative. You know, when your father and I went on our first date he took me to—"

At the sight of Hallie's raised eyebrow, Lorraine interrupted herself. "Fine, no more tales of the depraved Seventies! Still, you could have invited him up and use me as an excuse to throw him out politely after coffee."

Hallie looked across the living room, towards the closed door of Max's room.

"I can't do that yet."

"Oh." Lorraine readjusted her glasses over her nose. "You haven't told him."

"Again, Mom, not on the first date. He would run away from me and never look back."

"Dearie, there's no way of knowing how he'll react. And he's going to find out eventually!"

"I know, Mom, it's just... Today was the perfect evening. And I haven't had a perfect evening in so long! I didn't want to spoil it."

Lorraine frowned, letting out a lengthy sigh. "For now the important thing is that your date went well. Go get changed; I'm going to make some tea and then you can tell me everything about your fantastic Chef Tom."

"He's not _my_..."

"To your room, young lady! It's too late to argue, you'll wake up Max and he's got school tomorrow", interrupted her mother with a sassy wink.

Hallie knew it would be useless to insist. As she entered her room, she and saw her reflection in her vanity mirror. Of course, she looked like a normal, even pretty, woman of twenty-seven in a stylish green dress... but a part of herself was feeling like a teenager again.

Back in his Barbican flat, Tom was doing almost the same thing. He shed his blazer, took off his shoes, and then took a long look at himself in the bathroom mirror. He didn't see anything different than usual, of course. The night doorman of Shakespeare Tower had given him a weird look, but that must have been because he was returning from dinner alone, and in his case that was an anomaly.

Both of them thought they had felt some reservation, as if the other person had been holding something back. And, the truth was, they both were. Not for the same reason, of course. It wasn't exactly anything relevant... at least nothing too terribly dramatic.

Tom hadn't told Hallie that it was the first time in several months (or maybe more) that he'd kissed a woman without having sex with her immediately after.

Hallie hadn't told Tom that it was the first time she had been kissed in eight years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note 1: All the locations mentioned in this chapter are real, of course. Osteria is a wonderful Italian restaurant at the Barbican Centre, and the Shakespeare is a pub in Goswell Road, by the Golden Lane Estate. All the dishes mentioned at dinner are in the Osteria menu. In times like this I think this writer needs help... 
> 
> Author's Note 2: The status thing I mentioned at the gym scene may look like an idea taken from High Rise, but it was actually mentioned by a real Barbican resident in the Barbicania documentary, released a couple of years ago.  
> Reality can look a lot like a movie sometimes.


	8. Posher than a White Truffle Sandwich

Tom was always the first person to arrive at Band of Brothers. Before the other chefs, before the line cooks… even before Luke, who sometimes seemed to live in his office. He liked having the kitchen for himself for a while, to go over the menu for the day or simply to let his mind wander and imagine some new variation of a dish.

He parked his car in the usual place and opened the back door of the restaurant… to find the grinning face of Luke, who not only had arrived first but also seemed to be waiting for him.

“Good morning, sunshine! How was your date? Do we still have a sous-chef in this restaurant or will I have to explore the depths of LinkedIn in search for a woman who can cook _and_ be immune to your charms at the same time?”

Luke's remarks didn't erase Tom's smile from his face. If anything, it got even wider. The chef fake punched his friend, took off his leather jacket and walked past him towards the restaurant's office.

“Let me get some coffee first and I'll tell you everything. But, just so your ulcer doesn't burst… I’ll just say it was a great night.”

Baffled by the unusual positivity, Luke scrambled after Tom, who was already in the office pushing buttons on the Nespresso machine.

“I've never asked you to tell me _everything_ , not even when you hook up with strangers that I know nothing about. And I happen to be quite fond of Hallie, so this time please leave out all the nasty details. As far as I'm concerned, she doesn’t even have a sex life, and I want to keep that belief intact.”

Tom planted a smoking cup of black coffee in front of his friend and got another one for himself. “Don't worry, we did nothing that could offend your sensibilities. I took her home. I kissed her.”

“And...?”

“And nothing. We decided to leave it there.”

The restaurateur stood, frozen, with the scalding coffee in his hand, until he almost got burnt.

“Bugger! Where does this coffee come from, hell?” Luke adjusted his glasses and looked at Tom as if his friend had suddenly been replaced by a clone. “You're trying to make me believe that you had a date without sex. Nothing at all.”

“Just one kiss.”

“And that you didn't make a booty call afterwards to one of the girls on your little black book.”

“No one uses black books anymore, Luke. And no, I simply went home. Alone and quite content.” He raked his fingers through his hair, making a couple of short curls stand on end. “I told you, mate. I like Hallie. No more booty calls for me, at least until I see where this thing is going.”

Luke raised an eyebrow. “Well, I'm happy with that.”

“But you don't trust that I won't fuck up at some point.”

“Well, for the last year or so your love life has been a hundred times more exciting than mine. Finally having a bit of peace and quiet... I mean, stability, will be good for you. And for the business. And, consequently, for my poor nerves.”

Tom let out a hearty laugh. “Well then, maybe it’s time we start worrying about _your_ love life. I'm willing to help.”

“Splendid! Now that Gigolo Tom has retired, Wingman Tom will take his place. I'm only worried about what kind of men you think I like.”

Tom narrowed his eyes and frowned, deep in thought. “From what I've seen of your past boyfriends –the few you've bothered to introduce to me–, I have only one suggestion.”

“And that is?”

“That you stop stalling and ask Connor out already.”

Only Tom's quick reflexes prevented Luke's empty cup from falling to the floor when he dropped it.

“Shit, Thomas! Who told you?”

“We've been friends since college, mate!” answered Tom, rolling his eyes. “Do you think you know me better than I know you? I've seen you talking to him, working with him...”

“That doesn't mean that I...”

“Giving him more free days that his contract allows...”

“That was one time. One. Single. Time.”

“All I'm saying is that you need to get over Connor… or under him. No more putting it off.”

“Classy as fuck, Hiddleston.”

“But I made you react, admit it.”

Luke sat at his desk and rubbed his tired eyes.

“I can't do it, Tom. Not unless Connor finds a better job somewhere else, because while he's here I'm his boss. I've always been proud of my professional ethics, and I'm not going to throw them away just because I like someone, no matter how much.”

“I can fire him for you if you like. Or help him scout for another job.”

“That’s not how we do things here. No; one official couple at this restaurant is more than enough. I'll be happy knowing that you and Hallie are together; and, as for me... well, time heals everything.”

Tom got very serious for a moment.

“I guess it's just bad luck that the bloke you like happens to be the best bloody pastry chef in London. But hey, the wingman offer still stands. Maybe you can forget about Connor and meet some new people.”

“No man in any gay bar of this city will look at me twice while you're present, Hiddleston.”

“Have you tried that…  Grinder, or whatever it’s called? Or is that just for horny Uni lads?”

Luke finally laughed. “It’s pronounced _Grindr_. And no, I'm not diving into the black pit of online dating, not at this point in my life. Now, get your arse to the kitchen and start making food before all our clients find a better place to eat.”

“Better than Band of Brothers? Not in this city, mate. Not while I'm able to hold a kitchen knife.”

* * *

 

“Oh, this _adorable_ little angel must be Max!”

Hallie smiled at the woman, a bit startled. By her side stood a boy around her Max’s age, so Hallie supposed it was the mother of one of his classmates. The other woman didn't give her a lot of time to keep supposing things before holding out a surprisingly strong and perfectly manicured hand.

“Elizabeth Morland. But don't you dare call me any other than Liz, please. I think my Danny and your Max have become the best of friends! I was dying to meet you, of course. In fact, I believe I met your _wonderful_ mother the other day, I couldn't believe how lovely she is and how young she looks...”

“Hallie Harrison. Very pleased to meet you, Liz. And you too, Danny”, she said, waving to the cheerful little boy with ginger hair a face full of freckles who stood beside his mom.

Because her work kept her away from Max most afternoons and practically every evening, Hallie liked to get up early and take the boy to school. She felt a bit intimidated by the imposing brick building, and especially by the super posh mothers and fathers she saw every morning, behind the wheels of their expensive European cars, dropping their kids at school and then going to their jobs in the City, or at the Parliament, or to do whatever the super rich people did all day. Of course, there were also a lot of nannies and caregivers, some of them even in uniforms.

However, Mrs Morland (Liz, she corrected herself mentally) looked a bit different from the rest. To begin with, she had arrived in an old Bentley, which appeared to be one bump in the road away from falling apart. She was well dressed, but in clothes that were more comfortable than expensive. And she also seemed to have a habit of talking non-stop.

“You know, next month we’ll be having Danny's birthday party, and Max is the first boy on his guest list. We're not doing anything extraordinary, just lunch and some games for the kids... my silly husband has a little house in the country, near Guildford, and we're thinking of taking all the boys there to spend the day, organize a game of cricket, have some tea on the lawn... you know, the usual.” The school bell tolled three times, indicating that the boys had ten minutes left to enter the building and get to their classroom. Mrs Morland started searching for something in her oversized tote bag, until her hand finally reappeared holding a cell phone with a cracked screen.

“Here it is! I'll forget my own head at home someday. As I was saying”, she continued, not leaving Hallie a moment to intervene, “let's exchange numbers and I'll organize everything. Oh, and you must come too, Hallie! I have a _thousand_ friends who have seen your cooking show and want to meet you!”

She finally stopped for air, and Hallie took her opportunity to say something.

“It all sounds fantastic, doesn't it, Max?” The kid nodded enthusiastically. “And now, give me a hug and go to class. You don't want to be late.”

Both boys kissed their mothers goodbye and ran past the school gate, their pencil boxes making a rattling sound as they disappeared up the stairs.

Seeing that her new friend was busy (and, thankfully, silent) waving her own son goodbye, Hallie grabbed her chance to speak again.

“Thank you so much for the invitation, Liz. I'm really glad Max is making friends so quickly; unfortunately my work doesn't leave me a lot of time for having a social life, so I'm grateful for...”

“And that's another thing we need to fix!” interrupted the boisterous woman. “Danny has told me that you’ve been raising Max on your own, poor thing... but if you're willing to get back on the market, I know a couple of lovely young men that you should meet. Well, my husband's cousin Alastair, for instance, is a barrister at the Inner Temple...”

Hallie smiled and nodded several times, waiting for the right moment to change the topic. She didn't want to discuss the details of Max's fatherless state, especially not with a woman who, nice as she was, she had just met.

It took her a good five minutes of smiling, nodding and exchanging pleasantries until Mrs Morland realized she was late for some errand and left, not without making Hallie promise that she would allow Max to attend a sleepover or two at her house. She almost had to agree to a date with cousin Alastair, but fortunately Liz had momentarily lost the man’s phone number and the thing didn’t go further.

As she headed down the street towards the Pimlico Tube she saw another familiar face going the same way.

“Buenos días, María!”

“Buenos días, Miss Hallie!”

María was the nanny of two boys, one from Max's class and the other a couple of years older. She was a Mexican woman with a friendly smile and eyes so dark that they looked almost black, and she also had an extraordinary talent for gossiping... something that Hallie was realizing was like a national pastime in London.

“I see you have met Lady Morland. You are making important friends!” María added with a wink. “We have never talked, but I like her. She never puts airs and graces like some other mamas.”

“Sorry... did you say _Lady_ Morland? But she asked me to call her Liz!”

“Of course she did! No airs and graces, I told you. But her husband is Lord Morland from the Chamber of Lords. In Parliament!”

Hallie couldn't help laughing.

“I think the school should have given us a parent's guide instead of a faculty guide. Anyway, she seems very nice... her son just invited Max to his birthday. Apparently they have a little house in the country.”

María smiled again, happy to put her extensive knowledge to good use. “That has to be Morland Hall, and I would not call it _little_. They don't live there, I think it must be uncomfortable living in a house that is hundreds of years old... but it's very beautiful, they open it for visits in the Summer.”

“Okay. So she has a title, a husband in Parliament and a mansion. And she just goes around bringing her son to school in the morning in a practically derelict car.” Hallie took a deep breath before laughing again. “María, this country's weird.”

“It is a good country”, sentenced the other woman in a heavily accented English. “So, tell me, how is little Max doing in class?”

The two women walked towards the Tube and away from the school, where a porter was just closing the gates after all the kids had gotten inside. The line of expensive European cars had also disappeared, and the brick building gleamed proudly in the sun, while within its walls a group of very fortunate boys were getting a healthy dose of an excellent, and also very expensive, education.

* * *

 

The excitement about their first date didn't disappear from Tom and Hallie's minds, not for several days. They didn't exactly talk about it, especially at work, but even the line cooks could feel that something had changed. There was an unusual but very satisfactory wave of positive energy going around the Band of Brothers kitchen, and the few people who were informed of the situation (only Luke, Connor and Shirley... although Birdie the cook definitely suspected something) tried to look as happy and relaxed as possible around the new situation.

Then, Friday night brought another surprise, this time of a culinary nature. Dinner service had started half an hour before, and everything was going smoothly, until Luke appeared in the kitchen, unannounced.

“Tom, Hallie, can we talk for a second?”

There was nothing strange or alarming in his voice, but nevertheless all the kitchen personnel looked at one another, surprised. Like most nights, Luke was in charge of the front of the house, which meant welcoming guests and making sure their time at Band of Brothers was enjoyable. It also meant that he very rarely left his post unless it was an emergency. And an emergency so important that took Luke away from the restaurant floor and the two chefs away from the busy kitchen had to be nothing short of a planetary catastrophe.

Fortunately for everybody that night, it wasn't exactly like that.

“Guys, Chef Bruno Barbieri has just arrived for dinner, unannounced and without a reservation. He's going to be in London for just one night, and he's chosen this restaurant – our restaurant – for his meal. I mean... oh, well, no more explanations. You're the experts in cooking here, and I'm sure you know more than me about Barbieri and his constellation of Michelin stars, so I'll just leave you to it.” Without allowing the astonished chefs time to react, he started to make his way back to the salon. “I know you'll make a good impression, so I'm just going to give him a bit of conversation while he thinks about his order. Then he's all yours!”

Luke disappeared towards the cluster of tables, leaving behind the two chefs whose minds were racing, thinking of all the possible combinations of dishes that Bruno Barbieri could order.

“Let's go back to the kitchen, quick.” Tom was the first one to react, of course; the tone of his voice dropped half an octave and he started talking faster than usual. The cooks at Band of Brothers called this 'the Dark Chef Mode', and it was rarely seen in the kitchen except when he was creating new dishes or under an exceptional amount of pressure. Despite the ominous name, there was nothing dark or sinister in Tom during these moments... it was more like a general warning to get out of his way, don't distract him, and let his overexcited mind do the work.

Hallie knew about this aspect of Tom's personality, of course, but this was her first time seeing it up close. There was even a slight aura of danger around him, something that she found strangely attractive...

She blinked a couple of times, coming back from her daydream when she realized that Tom was talking to her again.

“Fine, each one of us will be in charge of a dish. The prep is all done, but just in case Birdie can help you, and I'll take Alex. The most complicated dish in our menu would be the lobster and crab étoufée, but being Italian I don't think it will be Barbieri's first choice.” He barely took time to breathe between one torrent of words and the next. “Will you take the first course or the second? Of course, first courses are easier in theory, but if he wants the Scottish langoustine or the Jerusalem artichokes those dishes have to be the perfect start of the meal–”

“I'll take the starter, of course. The entrée is more important, and you're the executive chef. But I think Birdie should be helping _you_ , she's faster and she has a lot more experience; I'll make do with Alex.”

“If he starts slacking give me a shout and I'll kick his arse”, Tom reminded her right before they entered the kitchen again. He looked around his kingdom, where Birdie, Connor, and the prep cooks Alex and Kumal were staring at him and wondering what the catastrophe was.

Tom was about to explain the situation, when the head server hurried towards the kitchen line, squared his shoulders and passed a handwritten ticket to Tom.

“Chef Barbieri's order, Chef!”

The man had been in the Royal Navy for a while, and sometimes he still acted as if he was still aboard the HMS Henrietta (he even clicked his heels every now and then, and Tom imagined it took every bit of his willpower not to salute).

After the server left, Tom read the ticket three times before he started barking orders.

“Hallie, first course: as we predicted, Jerusalem artichokes with Parma ham, Langres cheese and white truffle. Alex, you'll help Chef Hallie with the prep. Birdie, the second is the Herdwick lamb rack with fresh peas and sprouting broccoli, you're with me. Start with the peas and the broccoli while I prepare a quick amuse-bouche. Let’s go, people!” The older woman practically jumped to her station and started chopping and peeling, while Hallie went over the recipe of the artichokes in her mind.

“Connor!”

“Aye, aye, Captain!” the pastry chef laughed, expectant to see what he would have to prepare.

“Very funny. Barbieri wants the tasting dessert menu, which means one bit of everything, and it also means every bite has to be perfect or we're screwed.”

“No problem, Chef”, answered Connor. “Most desserts are already prepped, I just have to finish and plate everything. One poached peach with grapefruit ice cream, one mini orange blossom cake, one strawberry and violet tartlet and one miniature serving of my fabulous mint crème brulée with bitter chocolate chantilly. Piece of cake. Well, four pieces of cake. Well, not exactly cake, because for pieces of the same would be boring, but you know what I mean.”

“Good”, answered Tom absentmindedly, without even paying attention to the pastry chef’s bad attempt at a joke. “Kumal, you'll keep expediting and working on the other orders; as soon as Hallie and Alex are finished with the first course, they will join you.”

He looked around the kitchen once again, now full of very busy people, and he finally walked to his own station, not without delivering a final warning.

“I remind everybody that Bruno Barbieri has _seven_ Michelin stars.” He raised seven fingers in the air, eliciting some surprised looks from the line cooks. “He knows all about good food and we won't give him anything but our best. Let's get to work!”

Over the next few minutes, the whole kitchen fell into an efficient routine. The only sounds one could hear were those of the food getting chopped, peeled, sautéed or (in the case of Connor's mint crème brulée) slightly charred with a tiny kitchen torch.

Halfway through plating her dish, Hallie stopped for a moment to look at it: the cheese and the cured ham were beautifully arranged around the artichokes, only waiting for her to place a few delicate (and incredibly expensive) slices of white truffle on top.

“Hallie, everything alright?” She could hear a hint of concern in Tom's voice; and when he approached her station he was looking at her, not at the dish.

“Yes, fine, it's only that I'm absurdly nervous about this. I mean, I've cooked this dish dozens of times, but knowing that this time it's for one of the biggest chefs in Italy...”

Tom placed a hand on the cuff of Hallie's chef coat as a gesture of support. During their first date they had agreed that there would be no inappropriate contact in the kitchen, of course, and the sleeve was the less compromising place he could think of.

“He may have all those Michelin stars, but he also has a stomach and taste buds like every other man. Relax. Let the food do the talking. Besides, he's head judge of MasterChef Italy, don't you think he's going to love anything you make?”

“Hey, I thought you didn't watch cooking shows!”, answered Hallie, visibly more relaxed after Tom had reassured her.

He winked at her as he went back to his station; of course all the other people in the kitchen saw it, but everybody pretended not to notice.

“I'm catching up.”

* * *

 

Several hours and many, many dishes later, service had ended one more night on a brilliant note.

Chef Barbieri had asked for Chef Hiddleston's permission to visit the kitchen: he shook Tom's hand, hugged Hallie, praised all of Connor's desserts, congratulated the prep cooks, and made Birdie blush like a teenager when he declared that the peas that accompanied the lamb were the most beautifully cooked he'd eaten in all his life.

While Kumal and Alex loaded the dishwasher, Tom scurried to the back alley for a quick smoke; Hallie went with him and leaned against the door frame in silence. The pressure of the day was finally taking its toll on her.

“You did a great job today”, started Tom after a moment. “Focused, precise... I think it has been our fastest service in weeks.”

“Well, I'm finally learning my way around a professional kitchen, I think.” She undid the top button of her chef coat, her only concession towards comfort. “Although I have to admit that if I didn't have to work I could spend all service watching _you_ cook.”

Tom smirked, and a tiny hint of pride gleamed in his eyes. “Is that so, Chef Harrison? Am I that mesmerizing?”

Hallie blushed and waved her hands, trying to find the right words. “Well... I wish you could see yourself when you're working. It's like you're going in a sort of trance, you're very calm but at the same time completely frenetic... it's almost scary sometimes, how much you concentrate.”

“Well, remember that next Sunday I'm going to cook for you at my flat... and I promise not to scare you or get into a trance without warning.”

“I think I'm going to like that a lot.”

Tom threw the stub of his cigarette into a nearby bin. “Well, I’m going to supervise the cleaning up… you should go home and rest. I’m sure everybody’s knackered today.”

“I would be, if I knew what that word means... although I have a slight idea of what it could be”, laughed Hallie. “Sometimes I doubt we speak the same language. To you I must sound like I'm from another planet.”

“We'll have you speaking proper English in no time, don't worry.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and disappeared towards the changing room.

Hallie took a deep breath and went back to the kitchen to put her knives in order before going home. She could feel the exhaustion taking over her at full speed.

“ _Knackered_ ”, she whispered to herself. “Definitely, the British have all the best words.”

* * *

 

Between one thing and the other, it was half past eleven when Hallie got out of Band of Brothers, carrying a heavy bag with her dirty work clothes in it. The door to Aeon, the restaurant across the street, was still open, and in the yellow light she saw Harrington Craig waving at her.

There was a woman with him. Probably family, Hallie thought, judging from the eyes, the hair, and the general air of elegance that surrounded both of them. She took a hesitant step towards the two people, and Harry greeted her with a smile.

“Hallie! I'm so happy to see you, it's been ages!”

“I know. Things at the restaurant have been hectic these past few days. How are you?”

“Never better.” Harry looked at the woman by his side. “Hallie, this is my sister Georgiana. She's been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Call me Georgie”, she said. “I almost feel like I already know you, Harry talks nonstop about the new star chef in town.”

Hallie wasn't sure how to interpret that, so she just nodded (and blushed a little, although that was involuntary). Harry's sister pretended not to notice, and she quickly changed the subject to ease Hallie's discomfort.

“I'm guessing my brother hasn't told you about the party yet. Right, Harry?”

“No, busybody, not yet. You only started planning it yesterday, remember?” he quipped. “It's not a real party, I'm just having some friends over to show them my new flat. And Georgie's last bits of interior decoration.”

Georgiana laughed. “Dear Harry, only you can make a housewarming party sound dull. Don't worry, sweetie”, she said to Hallie in a conspiratory tone”, I promise that I won't give a lecture about the fabric of the curtains or the Carrara marble in the bathroom. There will only be a few good friends, good music and good drinks. Oh, and lots of food. But not made by my brother, of course. I'm not allowing him to work that day.”

“Georgie, if you'll just let me take care of the _hors d'oeuvres_...”

“Nonsense!” answered Georgiana, in that tone that only older sisters use with their baby brothers. “You won't be slaving in the kitchen at your own party. We can't be having with that.”

She spoke with what Hallie could only describe as cheerful authority, a quiet poise that you usually could only see in certain film stars from the 1940s. Hallie took a good look at the woman: she was wearing a man’s blazer, a pair of tweed trousers that had seen better days, and a vintage silk blouse (vintage... or maybe just old?). And, despite all that, she still looked like a duchess. Hallie was reminded of Liz Morland, the mom from school who looked a mess but still managed to be elegant, and decided that upper crust Brits were not exactly like the other ordinary mortals.

“Well, Hallie, what do you say?”

“I... well, you haven't even told me when...” she hesitated.

“It's next Sunday”, Harry intervened. “And you're not in any obligation to attend, but it would be wonderful if you could be there.”

“I think I have something to do on Sunday”, Hallie answered, remembering that she had scheduled a date with Tom, and that there was no way she could go to Harry's flat accompanied by his worst enemy. “But if I didn't have plans already, I would definitely go, of course.”

“Don't worry, darling”, said Georgiana with a smile. “There will be other parties. You chefs are all the same, working non-stop twenty-four hours a day. But now that I'm back in London for the foreseeable future, I'm going to make my brother have a social life again, you'll see.”

“That's very kind of you. And I promise that next time I'll go.”

“Splendid! Now, it's getting late and the night is too cold for alfresco conversation.” Georgiana looked at her naked wrist for a moment. “Golly, I think I’ve lost my watch again. Is it midnight already?”

“A quarter to”, answered her brother.

“Beastly hour. Darling, would you like Harry to take you home?”

“Oh no, please, there's no need! I'm going to Barbican Station on the Circle line, I'll be home in no time.” She looked at Harry, intrigued. “I just realized I don't know where you live.”

“Of course, how stupid of me!” he said, reaching for a business card in his wallet. “Saint Katharine Docks. Not too far from your place... do you live at the Barbican Estate?”

“No, at Golden Lane. The Barbican is just a bit too posh for me.” Hallie grabbed her bag again and shook Georgiana's hand. “It's been lovely meeting you, Georgie. I hope I'll see you around the restaurant.”

“Of course you will, darling. I live in Sloane Square, just two minutes away from here, so I'm always around. We absolutely have to meet for coffee one day... if your boss doesn't mind you fraternizing with the enemy.”

“He's not as terrible as everybody says”, Hallie said, laughing. “Tom's bark is worse than his bite, don't worry. Well, I have to go or I'll miss the last Tube. Bye!”

The two siblings waved at the blond-haired figure that disappeared around the corner, until Georgiana nudged her elbow in her brother's ribs.

“Ouch! What was that for?”

“My God, you must like that girl so much, you became a wet rag in front of her! Interior decoration? _You're not in any obligation to attend_? You were planning to make her fall in your arms with that?”

"I wasn't planning anything, just..."

“All right.” Georgiana sighed. “But if you keep doing what you're doing, you will be single forever.”

“I remind you that I've been married. Recently.”

“Evil bitches don't count. Anyway, I like Hallie; she looks like a clever girl. You could do much worse than that... oh, wait, you _did_ do much worse, not too long ago.”

“Please stop making fun of my failed marriage. It stings. Besides… I suspect that other thing she had to do on Sunday had something to do with Tom. She was very quick to defend him.”

“Well, I don't blame her. Dear old Tommy was always better than you with women.”

“Is it really necessary to beat me up when I'm down? I can recite a list of _your_ failed relationships if you want to share some of my misery.”

“Heavens, no! We'd be here all night. And I have a party to plan, because I obviously can't count on your brilliant conversation to impress our new friend.”

“Don't bother too much with the planning”, answered Harry, a bit crestfallen. “I have the feeling that Hallie has already been impressed… by a certain Chef Hiddleston.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a very long hiatus, Chef Tom is finally back! This chapter is not too exciting, but I’m quite happy with it, especially because it means I’m writing again. I’m still full of doubts about the value of my fanfiction, especially lately because so many of my writer friends have stopped writing fanfiction or moved away to other fandoms, but I’m determined to finish this story.


	9. Cake, canoodling, cocktails and confusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so terribly sorry for the long delay! It’s been a weird combination of real life stuff, writer’s block and a growing feeling of insecurity about the things I write. But, anyway, here it is, and I hope you enjoy it. It's insufferably long, like all my chapters; it seems I'm unable to write 3000 words and just leave it there.

CROSSING KNIVES CHAPTER 9

Every Sunday, exactly at 9pm, a traffic control helicopter flew over the City of London, checking that the peace of the night wasn't disrupted by a sudden accident or –almost worse– an unexpected traffic jam.

Every Sunday, at 9:03 pm, it flew over the Barbican towers. Three perfectly grey, elegant, monolithic statues raising towards the sky. Of course, the people on board the helicopter didn't stop to wax poetic about the brutalist buildings. Sometimes one of them looked down and noticed if the lights on the penthouses were lit or not; but, like good Londoners, they didn't care much about other people's lives, not even if those other people were rich sods who lived in super expensive luxury flats on top of an architectural wonder.

If they had bothered to look towards Shakespeare Tower (and carry a pair of binoculars) on that particular Sunday, they would have seen a man standing on the balcony of the 42nd floor. A tall blond man, holding a bottle of beer and looking supremely depressed.

Tom emptied the rest of the bottle in one long swig, while his confused brain tried to make some sense of what had happened after dinner. It all started so well, he thought. Second date with Hallie, a home cooked dinner, some jazz music... The modus operandi had been the same he'd used in countless other dates, only this time he was really interested in what his date had to say. At least until she had bolted out, of course. He stood up and staggered towards the sofa, replaying the dinner over and over in his head and wondering what the hell he'd done to make a carefully planned night go to shit.

In fact, the dinner part had been incredible. He made sure to cook his best for the occasion, and Chef Hiddleston's best was always a culinary experience to remember. The oysters in the appetizer were poached to perfection in his favorite Riesling wine; the second course, a rack of lamb many restaurants would be proud to display on their menus, accompanied by a rainbow of the tiniest vegetables he could find. As for dessert, Hallie had brought a glorious raspberry and white chocolate cake decorated with many infinitesimal pieces of gold leaf. His mouth watered when he saw it; well, in fact his mouth had started watering just before, when he had opened the door and seen his guest arrive in a spectacular blue dress.

No, he was sure nothing wrong had happened during dinner… so it must had been after coffee, when he had taken Hallie to the balcony to admire the view.

* * *

“I think you can see my flat from here”, Hallie said, squinting in the direction of the Golden Lane Estate. “There! On the corner of that building, the one with the lights up. It's so tiny from here!”

Tom nodded and got a bit closer to her, trying to identify the dot of light many floors below.

“Your mother must be up waiting for you.”

“Oh, don't worry, I told her not to wait up in case I...” she stopped herself and blushed a bright shade of pink. “I mean, I'm a big girl, it's not like she's keeping tabs on me or anything.”

Tom bit his lip in silence, smiling. He had been looking for a subtle way to invite Hallie to spend the night, and now he knew she was at least considering it.

“Would you like to go back inside? It's starting to get chilly.”

She nodded. The truth was, early October in London could indeed be quite cold, especially at four hundred feet above ground. She sat on the sofa and took a sip of her wine while Tom managed the music. Her personal tastes turned more towards Broadway than jazz, but nevertheless she closed her eyes and let the rhythm of the song transport her for a moment.

“Earth to Hallie.”

“Oh God, sorry! I always close my eyes when I'm enjoying good music, or good food. One of those silly things one does sometimes.”

Tom sat beside her on the sofa. “It's alright. But right now I think I prefer to enjoy the moment with my eyes open. You look stunning tonight, Hallie.”

“But it's just me”, she answered with a smile. “The same woman that looks a mess every day after eight hours in the kitchen.”

“If it wasn't for the health and safety regulations, I'd ask you to wear that dress to work every day. You'd be the most attractive chef in any London kitchen.”

“What, this old thing? It's really nothing special.”

Tom slid his hand over hers and looked Hallie right in the eye.

“Then maybe it's the person inside of the dress who's special.”

Not having a lot of dating experience, Hallie didn't know what to say next, so she let her instinct take charge. And her instinct, that dormant and neglected part of herself, told her to do what every young woman sitting next to a very attractive man would do in her situation: she kissed him.

Forgetting her initial shyness, Hallie clasped her hands around Tom's shoulders and allowed him to take command of the kiss. She reveled in the sensation, in the intensity of his mouth closing over hers, in the skilled way one of his hands slid over her neck and the other inched towards her thigh...

“Hallie.”

“Hmmm?”

“You're doing it again, love... look at me, please.”

She opened her eyes. Tom was close, so close it was almost overwhelming, but she made a mental effort and told herself to keep her eyes on him no matter what.

“Sorry. I told you, when I'm feeling good I just don't need to see.”

“Oh, but I do”, answered Tom, caressing her blond hair. “I need you to look at me, Hallie, because I fell for those eyes the moment you stepped into my kitchen. Don't close them, stay with me.”

His lips began to inch their way down Hallie's neck, sending a shiver down her spine. Slow but steady, with fleeting touches along her skin that made her moan and sigh aloud more than once. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the bedroom door in the distance, and she couldn't help wondering what it would be like after so long. To be in bed with someone again, to let him explore her body, let him see her naked...

Tom could feel the exact moment when the girl froze in his arms. She stared at some unspecific point in space, and her lower lip quivered as if she was about to burst into tears.

“Hallie, darling, are you alright?”

No answer, but one of her hands flew to grab hem of her dress and move Tom's hand away from her leg.

“Hallie, please, what's wrong?” he tried again.

“I can't do this.”

Tom frowned and moved away a couple of inches. “Fine. We don't have to do anything, but I need you to tell me if I've done something wrong.”

“No! No, please, it's been wonderful, it's just... I can't let you see me... I mean...I just can't!”

She shot up from the sofa and grabbed her purse and coat from the chair she’d left them on. “Tom, please, I'm so sorry, I need to go home right now. This was all a mistake.”

Alarmed, Tom searched in his mind at top speed, looking for the precise words to keep the bewildered woman from running away. “Hallie, if you think this is going too fast, we can talk about it. We’ll wait until you're ready, but please don't leave like this.”

She stopped in her tracks for a second to look back at him, her breathing agitated and the hand that held her purse visibly shaking. “Oh, Tom, you shouldn't have asked me out. I'm a mess, I will bring you nothing but bad luck, and...”

Tom approached the anxious girl slowly, stopping at a distance to avoid scaring her.

“Bad luck? Hallie, you've been the best thing that’s happened to me in months. Just ask Luke!” He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to make sense of the situation. “Listen, why don’t you go home and rest? I’ll wait for your call tomorrow, or we can talk on Tuesday when we go back to work. I'll walk you to your place if you want–”

“No, please, there's no need. It's two minutes away.” She slung her coat over her arm, without pausing to put it on. “I have to get out of here, Tom... I'm sorry. I will… I mean, we'll talk at work.”

And, just like that, she left.

Tom barely had time to walk her to the door and hold it open for her. He heard the sound of heels down the corridor, slowly at first and then picking up a running pace halfway to the lift. When he realized he was staring at the closed door of his flat like an idiot he returned to the living room balcony and looked down, waiting to see her small figure in the distance emerge from the tower and run towards Goswell Road, into the Golden Lane Estate… and away from him.

Confused, frustrated, and frankly angry at the Universe that would put such a woman in his life only to yank her away from him in the worst possible moment, Tom grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, took his shoes off and sat on the cold concrete of the terrace hoping that the cold air of the night would clear his mind.

Women were the bloody devil, and damned be the poor sod who tried to understand them.

* * *

Meanwhile, at Hallie's flat, Lorraine had just put her grandson to sleep and turned on the telly. She had missed British TV a lot during her years in California, especially Coronation Street.

When she heard a key turning in the lock she looked at her watch, surprised.

“Hallie? Is that you, sweet pea?”

“Yes.”

The unusually short and deflated answer was a red flag, and she followed her daughter's steps towards the bedroom, where Hallie had let herself fall face down on the bed, not even bothering with taking off her pumps.

“My powers of deduction tell me that your date wasn't exactly as you expected”, she started in a sympathetic tone. “I'll make you a cuppa and we can talk about it if you want.”

Hallie turned around to face her mother. “I don't want tea. I… Oh, Mom, I feel like a complete idiot!”

Lorraine frowned. “Did he behave like a pig? Because if he did I can go over there and kick his arse, you know. He may be a chef and everything but I was captain of my lacrosse team for three years when I was in college.”

The joke failed to get a smile out of Hallie. She sat up on the bed and hid her face behind her hands.

“He was perfectly lovely all the time. No, Mom, I was the one who ruined it by panicking and running away.”

“Hmmm. Maybe things were going too fast? It's not something mothers usually tell their daughters, but... sweetheart, you can't go from zero to one hundred in two dates, especially when you've been living the life of a cloistered nun for years.”

Another attempt at humor, another nonplussed look from Hallie, and Lorraine decided to stop trying with the jokes.

“I _wanted_ it to go fast this time”, said Hallie in a whisper. “At least until I realized that if I spent the night with Tom he... he would see my c-section scar and he would start asking questions.”

Lorraine's face turned dead serious.”You haven't told him about Max.”

“I didn't know how to tell him. Or what he would think of me if I–”

“Stop”, interrupted her mother. “Now I'm ordering you to come to the kitchen, drink some tea and have a piece chocolate or two. I won't allow my daughter to fall into a mental loop of self-deprecation.”

She motioned for Hallie to follow her into the kitchen.

“I can't help thinking it's my fault”, she said with a sigh. “I should have encouraged you to start dating much sooner.”

She adjusted her glasses over her nose and, seeing that Hallie was sulking in silence, continued:

“Baby girl, you shouldn't be ashamed of what your body looks like. I have a scar myself... they had to cut me up twice, one for your brother and the other for you. You were incredibly cute babies, but God knows both of you had big heads.”

Third time is the charm, and Hallie finally laughed.

“I never lost the weight I gained when I had Max, either.”

“Bollocks. A few pounds won’t scare a good man; Tom asked you out knowing perfectly what you look like, right?”

Hallie nodded.

“You're a beautiful girl, Hallie. A girl who's had her life on pause for a few years... but you're only twenty-seven! Go out, date men, have fun! You deserve all that, and I'm here to help you with Max as long as you need me.”

Hallie opened her mouth to answer, but several loud chimes coming from her phone at an alarming pace interrupted her. She read the messages out loud.

“It's Harrington Craig... oh, and more messages from his sister Georgiana. Both of them reminding me that his birthday party has just began and that I'm invited if I feel like dropping by.”

“Maybe you should go and mingle a little bit. It's barely nine and you need some cheering up. Where does this Harrington live, again?”

“Saint Katharine's Docks.”

Lorraine let out a long whistle. “Wow, posh! You should go even if it's just to see what his place looks like. You can make some new friends, maybe meet a man or two...”

“Mom, I'm with Tom! That is, if he still wants me back after today.”

“And that’s what I was talking about”, retorted her mother. “Two dates and you're already building a wall around yourself. You must get it from your father's side of the family... anyway, I think it will be good for you to have a little harmless fun. Tomorrow you can call Tom and explain everything, I’m sure he’ll understand. Now get your things, I'll call you a cab.”

Hallie started looking for her coat, forgetting that she had left it on her bed. “Mom, are you sure you don't want me to stay? We can watch a few episodes of Blackadder together, like we did last Sunday.”

“Absolutely not! I have to catch up on Corrie, I’m three episodes behind. Remember, don't take a minicab after the party, I've never trusted those. Or an Uber, I've been reading some shitty things about them.”

“Don't worry, Mum, I'll make sure to take a black cab”, said Hallie, making her way to the door.

“And take a picture or two of the flat, I've always wanted to see how the rich pillocks in Saint Katharine's Docks live!”

“Mom!”

“Joking, sweetheart. Now, off you trot!”

* * *

When Hallie arrived, the party was in full swing.

Although maybe _swing_ wouldn't be the right word to describe it. If a musical metaphor was absolutely necessary, it would be more like a session of cool, classic jazz.

Harrington had opened the door with a surprised smile and holding a Martini glass. Apparently the host was in charge of cocktails, and he enjoyed putting his little personal touches in them: an unusual mix of berries in a gin and tonic, or a surprising touch of chocolate in a mint mojito.

“Hallie! I didn't think you would make it, thank you so much for coming”, he said, taking her coat and signaling around the room. “Welcome to what my sister Georgie calls my bachelor pad. I have to warn you that I haven't done a lot of entertaining here, so my party skills are a bit rusty.”

Everything in the flat looked modern and sophisticated. The tall windows that looked over the river, the soft grays and beiges of the curtains and furniture... even the guests, wearing so much black that Hallie wondered for a second if it was a beatnik party and if she should have come wearing a costume.

She'd barely had time to tell Harry how lovely his flat looked, when the tall figure of Georgiana emerged from the kitchen. She had changed the tweed trousers for a deceitfully simple (and probably very expensive) charcoal dress with no jewelry, and there was an entourage of young men around her, ready to anticipate her every need.

“Oh, look who's here! Hallie, darling, it's so wonderful of you to come! You look absolutely adorable. Come, let me introduce you to everyone.”

After a quick round of introductions it became clear to Hallie that _everyone_ , like Georgiana called them, were most definitely the cream of the London crop. There were a couple of City bankers, several young (and probably rich) entrepreneurs, a famous sculptor who followed Georgie like a lapdog, and even a woman who had won a BAFTA.

These were the kind of people who never talked about ordinary, mundane things. From what Hallie could hear, most of the conversations around her versed about art, travel, literature, fashion, and all the latest fads on every field. Nobody discussed politics, of course; that would have been an inexcusable _faux pas_. And nobody ever talked about money either, as if the idea of exchanging vulgar currency for immortal art was an abomination.

Fortunately for Hallie, among the latest fads in London (and probably in the whole world) there was one she dominated quite well, and that was food. The explosion of cooking shows and celebrity chefs had transformed every elegant person into a gourmet, and as soon as Georgiana had introduced her to a few of her friends, they were all fighting for a minute of conversation with her.

Of course, some of the topics deviated a little bit from the purely culinary.

“Tell me, is Gordon Ramsay as dreamy in real life as he looks on television?” asked a woman with platinum hair, called Brenda, who had just published two bestsellers in a row . “I'm asking just for research purposes, of course. My next novel will be about a chef, and I need someone to base my characters on. Georgie suggested that I use Harry as my inspiration, but my protagonists need to have a mean streak, and poor Harrington is too nice for his own good.”

“He's a wonderful person. And a great chef, have you tried his–”

“I've just had a brilliant idea!” Interrupted the other woman. “You _have_ to take me to your restaurant one day. I need to immerse myself in the ambience of a real kitchen, that will give so much truth to my story! I promise I won't bother you, I'll be the proverbial fly on the wall. Who knows, maybe Chef Hiddleston will be a good model for my villain, don't you think?”

Hallie took a deep breath, not knowing exactly what to answer. She hadn't predicted that someone would mention Tom, and when the other woman pronounced his name she felt a wave of anxiety rush through her mind. Only one person in the room noticed: Georgiana, whose eagle eyes surveyed anything that could disrupt the peace of her well organized party. She rushed beside Hallie in a second, thrusting herself into the conversation before Hallie’s embarrassment could be noticed by anybody else.

“Now, Brenda, how can you be so insensitive? Hallie's here to relax from work, not to talk about it. Hallie, darling, come with me to the kitchen; I've just had a disagreement with Harry about the right amount of capers he should put on the smoked trout canapés, and I need the opinion of a real expert.”

The kitchen was occupied by a couple of attractive men, laughing and flirting with each other, but Georgiana shooed them out with a piercing gaze and the eloquent rising of an eyebrow.

“Now, sit here and have a little rest. I like Brenda, but her conversation is too overwhelming... she treats everybody as if we were characters in her books.” Observing that Hallie still looked distressed, she pushed the plate of canapés towards her friend. “Hallie, dear, are you having trouble at work? If you need a change of scenery, I'll order Harry to hire you first thing tomorrow.”

Hallie looked at her, surprised to see that her friend was absolutely serious.

“No, I'm fine. I mean, work is fine... it's really the job of my dreams.”

“Then, if you don't mind my asking, why did you look so worried when Brenda mentioned Band of Brothers...? Oh, wait. Unless it’s not the restaurant… You were fine until she mentioned Tom.”

Hallie picked up a canapé and looked at it with an air of melancholy.

“I was hoping to not think about him for a couple of hours. As I said, work is fine, but other things related to work have become… complicated.”

Georgiana sighed. “Oh, Tommy. I’m not even going to ask what he’s done this time. I feel it's my fault in part, because I was the one who introduced him to that wretched woman who ruined him and left him unable to have a normal relationship again. She walked all over him, and moved on to do the same with my brother… and I’m ranting again, sorry. You don’t even know who Charlotte is, right?”

“I’ve heard of her, but we’ve never met”, answered Hallie.

Georgiana fiddled with her phone and showed Hallie a picture of a beautiful woman, smiling on the red carpet of some fashion show.

“That piece of work in the super tight dress is supermodel Charlotte Rhodes, my ex-sister in law... and, before that, Tom's fiancée. She left Tom for my brother, married Harry, gave him hell for about a year, and then divorced him when she realized she could do better than the simple son of a baronet who had no interest in yachts, private jets or parties at Monte Carlo. Of course, I don't know all the details of her life” she said, with an air of sufficiency that indicated that she _did_ know all the details and a few more, “but I hear she's going after Viscount Dalby now, the heir of the Earl of Rochdale. I know Teddy Dalby from Uni, he’s a good man but not particularly brilliant. I hope he's got a good team of solicitors, he's going to need them if he ends up marrying her.”

Hallie stared at the beautiful woman on the screen, who happened to be quite the opposite of her: tall, thin, tanned, and with an air of confidence that she supposed was normal in a supermodel. That woman had the power of making everybody else feel ugly.

“So, she left Tom because...?”

“Because he wasn't getting rich fast enough. I mean, he's far from destitute, but chefs don't become rich and famous easily, not unless they have a television show, and Tommy never liked that kind of fame.” She put the phone aside, facing down, as if she wanted to keep her ex-sister in law as far away as possible. “Of course we didn't know that when she married my brother; I honestly thought she'd had a change of heart and fallen in love with Harry, and that's not a crime... she didn’t just fool him, she fooled the whole family.”

“Even you?”

“Yes, even me.” Georgiana rested her face on one of her thin, aristocratic hands. “I wish I could tell you that I mistrusted her from the start, or that my infallible instinct made me realize what a bitch she was. But no, alas. I was every bit as blind as the others; especially Harry. Then the drama about the title exploded, and he saw Charlotte's true colors, but it was too late for anything but an awfully expensive divorce. We avoided a scandal, but poor Harry was completely heartbroken.”

Hallie took a bite of her canapé. Every one of Georgiana’s answers seemed to leave her with more questions about Tom, Harry and the woman who had gotten between them.

“I'm not sure I understand... about the title drama.”

“Ah, yes. Sorry for being so cryptic, of course you don't know about that, not being British. And that's hardly your fault, anyway.” Georgiana picked two mojitos from the kitchen counter and offered one to her friend. “You'll think I've gone crazy when I tell you this, but it's all the House of Lords' fault.”

Hallie opened her mouth, closed it again, and sipped her mojito in silence.

“See? You think I'm halfway to the madhouse, but I promise it all makes sense”, said Georgiana. “It started two years ago, when a group of Lords agreed that it was a complete shame that men always took precedence over women when it came to inheriting a title. Of course, many people had been thinking that for years, but those Lords took it to Parliament. There were some debates, some opposition by a couple of conservative MPs, but in the end the New Peerages Act was passed and it received royal assent… sorry, I’m talking in riddles again; that means the Queen signed it so it could become law. And how does all that boring stuff affect my brother's wretched marriage, you ask? Well, you may not know that Harry is the fourth of five siblings, four of which are girls.”

“Oh... I'm starting to see it now.”

“Of course you are. Before the Act got approved it was a given that, when our father died, Harrington would became Baron Mountjoy; but now, under the new law, the title will go to our older sister Eleonora.”

Hallie’s American common sense kicked in. “But why did Charlotte care so much about a title?”

“Because with the barony comes the house in London, the great house in Dorset, a couple of cottages and a bit of land. The property cannot be divided, the Act didn't change that. It’s a package that goes straight from one Baron to the next.”

“When you say a bit of land, how many acres are we talking about?”

“Well… I suppose that it's slightly more than most people own. Not quite half of the county of Dorset.”

“Oh, wow.” Hallie made a mental note to look up the Mountjoy barony in Wikipedia as soon as she got home. “So, Harry was going to inherit all that, and now...”

“And now he'll be just the Honorable Harrington Craig for the rest of his life. Which he doesn't give a toss about, of course, because all he's wanted to do all his life is cook. Unfortunately for him, Charlotte had her eyes set on being Lady Craig and wearing a tiara; when she saw that was impossible, things started going sour between them, until she finally left. I have my suspicions that she was having a thing on the side, too... but I have no proof, so I'm not going to tell Harry.” Georgiana looked at her friend and smiled. “Welcome to the strange and wonderful world of the British peerage! I promise it becomes easier to navigate after a while. And most people don't care about titles, of course; we're like a strange race of dinosaurs that maybe one day will become extinct.”

Hallie laughed. “Oh, don't say that! And forgive my ignorance... we don't get taught about titles and stuff in America.”

“Of course not, it would be an absolute waste of school hours. And now that I've bored you enough, let's go back to the party. We're going to tell Brenda a couple of naughty secrets about Gordon Ramsay so she can include them in her book.”

“But I don't know any naughty secrets about him!”

“Use your imagination and make up something scandalous! Let's see if we can give her enough of a shock and she shuts up for five or six minutes.”

They got back to the living room, but Hallie could barely concentrate on the conversation. If she closed her eyes she could still see the picture of Charlotte, like a perfect Greek statue shrouded in pale grey fabric, flashing her perfect red lips and flawless skin, with her lustrous dark hair tossed over one shoulder.

If that was Tom’s idea of the perfect woman, why had he asked her out? And what exactly had Charlotte done to make him so bitter?

She shook her head, trying to banish the worrying thoughts. From the other side of the room, Harrington smiled at her and raised his glass, and she did the same. She decided to stay and have some fun talking to all these new people… after all, it was a really good party.

* * *

Tom's plan of getting supremely drunk after Hallie left had backfired on him halfway. The only thing he felt like drinking was beer, and he had just finished the last one. There wasn't any left in the kitchen, nor in the pantry, and to make things worse he had also out of cigarettes.

He paced up and down the spacious flat like a caged lion. He had the sudden idea of texting Luke, to see if his best friend could be of some help.

_'Luke, mate, are you awake?'_

_'Good evening, Thomas. Of course I'm awake, it's not even midnight. I may not be a party animal, but I still don't get in bed at nine like an old lady.'_

_'That's the spirit. Look, I'm not having a good night, can you come over?'_

_'I'm spending a couple of days with my parents, remember?'_

_'You're in Oxford?'_

_'I told you on Thursday, Tom.'_

_'Damn.'_

_'Sorry. I can come back early tomorrow and we'll have lunch at the pub. Then you can criticize all the food and feel superior.'_

_'No, you stay there, I can manage.'_

_'By the way, my Mum says hello.'_

_'What is **she** doing up at this hour?'_

_'We just came back from a Sound of Music sing-along. Don't laugh, it's more fun than it sounds.'_

_'Someday I'll blackmail you with this information.'_

_'Tosser.'_

_'I love you too, mate.'_  


Tom threw his phone on top of the table and lit his very last cigarette. He wasn't drunk enough to go to sleep, nor sober enough to work on a new recipe, or read, or do anything remotely constructive. Then he remembered that there was an off-licence two streets away: if he was condemned to be alone and bored, at least he could get properly drunk.

During the time it took for the elevator to go down the 42 floors he thought of Hallie again, and it left him confused. To make things worse, Charlotte appeared in his mind without warning, and _that_ made him downright angry. Almost two years since she had left, and he still couldn't think of her without a nasty feeling in his stomach.

The fresh air of the street did him some good, though. It was a cool, clear night, and the City of London seemed quiet and spooky, perfect for his moody state. He felt relieved to see that the off-licence was open; he bought some cigarettes and a pack of beer bottles, thanked the Pakistani boy behind the counter, and hit the street again.

He didn’t really feel like going back to his flat just yet, so he wandered along the edge between the Barbican estate and the Golden Lane (where Hallie lived, although he commanded himself not to think of her). He had never paid any attention to Golden Lane or his inhabitants before... but it was nice, he thought, with its low buildings and curved roofs. Like the Barbican’s shabbier sister, but still with a lot of charm. They even had one thing better than the Barbican: their own pub, called The Shakespeare for God knew what reason.

Tom's newly developed attention to the architecture of the City got interrupted by the sound of a car driving close to the estate, and what he did next was really strange, even for him. He normally didn’t react to things hiding behind a pillar.

The reason why he did such a silly was that the car in question had stopped in front of Crescent House, and Hallie had come out of it.

He let out a bitter laugh at the irony of the situation. _Of course_ his steps would take him right to Hallie's doorstep (even though he’d had no idea that she lived in Crescent House), and of course she would choose that moment to get back home and remind him of his disaster of a night.

_But back from where?_ asked a still lucid part of his slightly boozy brain.

The car started again and left in the direction of Goswell Road. Now Tom could see it clearly under the streetlights, and what he saw made him go livid. He waited until Hallie had gone inside and then he practically ran towards his place, not stopping until he was safe inside the flat.

Hallie had arrived home in a silver titanium Tesla, and he knew perfectly well who owned a silver titanium Tesla: the man who had been one step ahead of him all his life, the man who had destroyed his happiness once and now had every intention of doing it again.

Why else would Hallie arrive home at midnight… in a car belonging to Harrington Craig?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise things will get slightly better next chapter! It's already half written, so I know they will *evil laugh*


	10. Secrets, surprises, Sauvignon Blanc

Monday mornings marked the start of the work week at Band of Brothers. Planning menus, receiving deliveries, scheduling any special events... all those things had to be done on a Monday so the rest of the week would be properly organized.

Every day Tom was the first one to arrive. Sometimes a bit hungover, or wearing the same clothes as the night before (there was a shower in Luke's office, and Tom always kept a change of work clothes in the car). But, no matter what he had been doing during the long weekend, he was always in the kitchen when everybody else got there.

Which is why Birdie and Kumal, the cooks, who were neighbours and usually caught the same tube, were so surprised to find the back door of the restaurant firmly closed. And locked. Birdie searched in her large handbag for her set of keys, that she barely had any occasion to use. She also grabbed her phone, wondering if she should call Luke or if she was worrying about nothing. It was half past eleven, and they didn't have to start until noon, so it wasn't _really_ alarming that Chef Tom had decided to oversleep a little.

She was so concentrated, mobile phone in one hand and keys in the other, that she almost didn't hear Luke’s voice behind her.

“Morning, Birdie! Hey, Kumal!” He turned off the engine and got out of the car, smiling brightly, with a cup of Starbucks in one hand and some donut crumbs on his otherwise immaculate suit. Luke Windsor was definitely a morning person.

“Morning, Mr. Windsor. Is Chef Tom with you?”

“Tom? No, I haven't seen him since Saturday; I've got several lost calls from him, so I thought I'd come early so we could talk.” He glanced at the door, then at the two people in front of him, and finally at the door again. “Is there anything wrong? Why are you out here?”

Birdie sighed. “It's locked. And empty.”

Luke frowned for a brief moment. “Well, I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. He must have been partying until late, I'll give him a call and tell him to get his arse out of bed.”

They all got in; the cooks headed towards the kitchen and Luke to his office. He tried calling Tom, but the call went straight to voicemail. And again. After four tries, he resorted to messaging.

_‘Hey, mate, are you alright?’_

_‘Tom, I'm sorry I couldn’t come over yesterday, I was at my parents' in Oxfordshire and I didn’t get home until all hours.’_

_‘Hiddleston, it's almost noon. If you're down with the flu I can go by your place and bring you some chicken soup, but I need you to speak to me.’_

No response. He headed to the kitchen, where Hallie, Connor and Alex had also arrived and were starting to prep all kinds of food for the dinner service.

“Good morning, gods and goddesses of the culinary world! How's the week presenting?”

A chorus of cheerful voices assured him, all at the same time, that everything was perfect (and that chefs can be very, very loud people). Only Hallie didn't say anything except for a deflated ‘Hi Luke’, and that made him worry.

He decided to try calling Tom again, and right in that moment he heard the main door open and close with a slamming sound. And there was the missing Chef Hiddleston, standing in the hallway, in his chef whites, pale and sulky like the Ghost of Canterville on a bad day (minus the chains. And the castle. And the undead thing, although he did have the ashy complexion).

“Finally! I was starting to worry. Are you alright, mate? I tried calling you...”

“I was driving. Fine. I'm fine.” His voice sounded at least an octave lower than usual, which made it hard for Luke to understand him.

“I know that tone, Hiddleston, and it's everything but _fine_. Look, if you're not feeling well and you need the day off, just...”

“You can't send me home, Luke”, was the half-growled answer. “This place is as mine as it is yours, so spare me your 'cool boss' talk and let me get to work.”

Now Luke was absolutely sure that Tom was either sick or being an asshole on purpose. Or maybe both. He adjusted his glasses on his nose, thinking of the best way to find out the truth.

“Great. Do whatever you want. If at any point in the day you feel like talking to your business partner and oldest friend, and telling him what the bloody hell is wrong with you, I'll be in my office.”

* * *

 

About twenty minutes later, a quick rap at the door made Luke smile triumphantly.

“It's always open, Tom! Come in and share that sob story, whatever it is!”

The door opened slowly, but instead of Tom's closely cropped curls what appeared behind it was a head of blond hair, neatly tucked in a bun under a white chef hat.

“Luke, it's me. Sorry to interrupt you, but...”

“Hallie! I meant it when I said it's always open. Please come in. Coffee?”

“Luke, Tom burnt a sauce ten minutes ago and went to the pantry. He... he's locked himself in and he’s not answering when we knock.”

Luke got up from his desk, looking slightly murderous. “Okay, this has gone too far. I'm going to...”

“Please don't be angry with him! I think... I think it's my fault that he's all moody today, but I can't get him to talk to me.” She covered her face with her hands.

“Fine, let's all calm down. I won’t kill him...yet. Now let's go to the pantry and find out why he's acting more like an idiot than usual.”

In the kitchen, everybody was trying to keep things normal. The pots were boiling, the pans sizzled, and the cooks... well, the cooks had one eye on the suspiciously closed door that connected the kitchen with the pantry. Nobody said a word, but they all turned to Luke in unison.

The increasingly worried restaurateur knocked on the door several times. “Thomas, this isn't funny. Nor professional. Get your arse out of there!”

One or two muffled words came from inside.

“I can't hear you, you sod! This is a fireproof door!”

Nothing. Seeing that Luke's efforts were in vain, Hallie moved to the front of the group and approached the closed door.

“Tom, it's Hallie! Please, can we talk?”

Silence for a moment, and then they all could hear the sound of the lock being turned. Slowly.

It still didn't open, so Hallie grabbed the handle. Luke put a warning hand on her forearm.

“Whatever you do, get him out of there. I don't want to appear in the Daily Mail as the evil restaurant owner who almost let two of his workers suffocate inside a closed pantry.”

“Suffocate? There's a ventilation system in there.”

“You clearly don't read the Mail”, Luke sighed. “Just try and make him see reason, please.”

Hallie opened the door and got inside, closing it behind her without a noise.

“Now you want to see me.”

The Band of Brothers pantry was a spacious and well organized room, with cabinets and shelves to one side and a row of industrial sized freezers to the other. Tom was sitting on the floor, with his back to the wall and a can of beer in his hand, looking so miserable that Hallie almost had to fight back tears.

She thought of the best way to start the conversation; Tom seemed to be in a highly dramatic state, so she decided that maybe he would react if she dialed up the drama.

“Tom, if you want me to resign and leave, just say so and I'll be out of here in a minute”, she stated in a clear voice.

“What?” He clearly wasn't expecting that. He left the beer on the floor (unopened, Hallie noticed) and stood up with the help of the wall behind him.

He didn't seem drunk, just extremely hungover and a more than a little angry. He walked up towards Hallie very slowly, as if he was walking under water.

“Did you have fun with your boyfriend Harrington the other night?”

Hallie went red as a beet. “Tom, I went to...”

“I know where you went. For some reason you decided I wasn't good enough for you, so you staged your little freak-out and then Craig came to your rescue like a knight in shining armor. Well played.”

Hallie crossed her arms and frowned. “Tom, that wasn’t staged. I had to run home because I was feeling horrible, and then I got a text from Georgiana...”

“I see. So Georgiana was in it too, playing matchmaker for her little brother.”

“It was a birthday party! With at least fifty people in it!”

“I only saw two people in Harrington's Tesla.”

Hallie took a step back. “Tom, were you following me?”

“Following you? Bollocks!” answered Tom, outraged. “It's not my fault that in a city with nine million people you have decided to live right on my doorstep, Chef Harrison.”

“Well, it's hard to see people's faces from the balcony of your luxury penthouse, Chef Hiddleston, so you were either using a telescope or–”

“I don't need a telescope to see when someone's hiding something from me.”

She sighed. “Okay, this is ridiculous. We're having a conversation in the stupid pantry–”

“An argument”, interrupted Tom.

“Fine, an argument. But this is not the time or the place to do this.”

Tom raked his fingers through his already tousled hair. “Right. We must look like a pair of bloody teenagers. But you didn’t deny you _are_ hiding something from me, so don't tell me I'm imagining things.”

Hallie closed her eyes for several seconds. When she opened them again, she looked very serious. “Can we call a truce for a few hours and talk after work? Yes, there's something important I need to tell you… but it can't be here.”

“Have it your way”, said Tom in a chilly tone. “I'll take you home after work... but I don't know what you want me to say, except that I feel like you're gaslighting me.”

“You don't have to say anything, just listen. And if you don't like my explanation, tomorrow I will resign and you won't have to see me again. Deal?”

“Fine.”

He opened the door for Hallie with an exaggerated flourish, and looked at the bunch of people who had congregated in front of the pantry door.

“What, don't you all have jobs to do?”

Luke let out a sigh of relief. “I'm going to remove that lock today. No, forget about the lock, I'm having the whole door taken away.” He pointed a recriminating finger at Tom. “No more silly shenanigans in this kitchen, understood?”

Tom answered with a mock of a military salute.

“Splendid. Now, let's all get back to work and forget the past thirty minutes of our lives. Back to cooking, everybody!”

* * *

 At the same time Tom relived his personal drama in the Band of Brothers kitchen (and pantry), Harrington Craig was parking his Tesla right across the street.

He was in a bit of a hurry. Not exactly late, but he was anxious to try a couple of new and exotic ingredients he’d had shipped from Thailand the day before. Also, he had stayed at his parents' brunch for a bit longer than he should.

According to the family chronicles, the Craigs had been doing brunch since before the word was invented. The only thing that had changed over the years was the date: what for centuries had been a Sunday event had been changed to Monday since his two elder sisters got married and started having children. Apparently, having all your weekends planned in advance is not practical when you have several little ones, so brunch was rescheduled and now everyone was happy (except for the aforementioned children, who of course were at school).

Whatever the reason, every Monday, Lord and Lady Craig had the table set for at least thirteen people: her eldest daughter Eleonora, her husband, and the youngest of their three girls (who was two years old, so no school yet); Georgiana, always alone because she pitied his boyfriends too much to make them endure the family event; Minerva and her husband with their two daughters (who were homeschooled, and  loved being at the table with the grownups); Arabella, the youngest, who had recently became engaged to a young man and had earned the right to bring him to brunch; and, finally, Harry. Alone since his divorce… and frequently alone during his marriage, because his ex-wife Charlotte had hated his sisters with a passion (often reciprocated), and she always had an excuse to avoid setting foot in the Craigs' Hampstead house.

On that particular day, brunch had been a bit uncomfortable for him. His sister Georgiana, always eager to embarrass him at family events, had told their mother about Hallie... and the hopeful Lady Craig had spent more than an hour trying to extract information from her son.

“My dear Harrington” (she was the only person who called him by his full name all the time). “If there's a new young lady in your life, do bring her to tea sometime. I'll be very glad to meet her.”

“That would be wonderful, dear Mamma, but despite what Georgie may have told you there's nothing to write home about. I've met a girl I like, but unfortunately she only has eyes for Tom.”

“What a pity! Speaking of Thomas, I do wish you two would solve your differences. You were such good friends at school! You know, when you were younger I had the secret hope that he would end up marrying one of your sisters.”

Harry couldn't help raising an eyebrow at this affirmation, and all the other people at the table reacted in a variety of ways: his sisters Nora and Belle managed to muffle a burst of laughter, while Georgiana, less used to hiding her impulses, laughed heartily. Only one of the sisters, Minnie, seemed very concentrated on her food, blushing furiously. She'd had a brief thing with Tom during their time in Oxford, and her sisters had teased her mercilessly for years about ‘the Hiddleston affair.’

As for the men who were also attending brunch, not one of them noticed a thing. Harry's father was too busy enjoying his eggs Florentine; and all three of his daughter's significant others were completely oblivious to the crossing of glances between the women and their amused mother.

“Anyway”, continued Lady Mountjoy once the giggling had stopped. “I haven't lost hope of having a grandson yet. And apparently it has to come from you, because your sisters are exclusively occupied in having girls. Who I love very dearly, of course”, she added with a wink and a smile directed towards the three little girls sitting at the table. “But who’s going to inherit your father's collection of toy soldiers?”

This time the laughter was general, husbands and father included. It was a running joke in the family, their particular genetic lottery. The elder sister, Nora, had three lovely girls; the second, Minnie, had two and was expecting twins… she had just found out that both of them were also girls. The youngest, Belle, wasn’t married yet, but she always joked that she was going to start buying pink furniture for her future home. And Lord Mountjoy's collection of toy soldiers, enjoyed for the last time by Harry as a kid, had been collecting dust in the attic for more than twenty-five years.

Harry's recollection of the family meal was suddenly interrupted by the sound of steps in front of him. He forced his attention back to reality, just in time to avoid a collision with a young Black woman carrying the largest Starbucks cup he had ever seen.

“Oy! Careful, Mister Daydreaming!” she said, holding the cup as far as she could from her leather portfolio and her elegant black and white suit. She never lost her smile, however, and Harry wondered how a person who was on her way to work, and obviously in a hurry, could be in such good spirits.

“I am awfully sorry... God, I hope nothing has spilled.” He surveyed the woman's slender figure looking for a nonexistent stain, and then something clicked in his mind. “Wait a minute... don't I know you? You work with Luke Windsor, right?”

“Exactly, I'm his assistant. Shirley Berry.” She managed to hold both portfolio and coffee in her left hand, and extended the right towards Harry's offered handshake.

“Harry Craig. I've heard Luke talk wonders about you several times.”

“Well, he manages the restaurant, and I manage his finances, his schedule, and the rest of his professional life. Everything except Tom, of course. No one in the world can manage that man... but according to the rumours you already know that.”

Harry smirked. “You know, all this time I've been wondering how Band of Brothers is doing so well despite Tom not being able to keep his staff stable... maybe I should have looked into the business side of it. If you ever feel tempted to switch your allegiance, I'll be right here with open arms”, he added with a shy smile.

“Awww, that may be the nicest thing anyone has said to me in weeks. To be completely honest I have no intention to change jobs... but if you weren’t my boss's best friend's mortal enemy, I'd invite you to coffee.”

“Even if you are my mortal enemy's best friend's assistant, I will take you up on that invitation. I see you like Starbucks, but you may want to try a little café two streets away from here; they serve the best blends in London.”

Shirley's smile widened. “That sounds great. And I promise Tom hasn't paid me to poison your Cappuccino or anything.”

“Actually, I take it Ristretto... just so you know where to put the poison”, he answered with a wink.

“Duly noted.” She scribbled her personal mobile on a card and handed it to Harry, and they parted ways, hurrying towards their respective restaurants.

Harry put the business card in his pocket, and a second later he changed his mind and stored it in his wallet. Growing up in a house full of sisters had made him notoriously bad at flirting for many years, so he liked it when women took the initiative in a frank, carefree way, like Shirley had done. Even if it was just for coffee, and not a real date.

* * *

 The workday at Band of Brothers ended almost at midnight. Most Londoners, except for the ones who partied really hard, were already asleep or getting ready for bed, so the light traffic allowed Tom's Aston Martin to make the trip from Chelsea to Goswell Road in twenty minutes, instead of the usual thirty.

That meant twenty long minutes of sulky silence on Tom's part. After the bumpy start of the day he had been more cooperative, but for most of the day he’d kept a stubborn silence. Hallie tried to lighten the mood making a couple of casual comments at the start of the drive, but noticing the lack of response she chose to concentrate on her phone. She texted her mother to let her know she was bringing Tom home, but Lorraine hadn't answered her yet.

Finally, when they were only a couple of minutes away from the City, Tom broke his silence.

“Texting your boyfriend?”

Hallie huffed. “I'm glad you're speaking to me again. And no, as far as I know I don't have a boyfriend, thanks for asking.”

“Then what do you call the _Honorable_ Harrington Craig? Just a fuckbuddy? A friend with benefits?” he asked between gritted teeth. “I bet he's already planning to make you the second Mrs. Craig. He can be very quick when it comes to marrying other people's–”

“Will you stop with that, Tom? We're almost... turn right, please, we're almost there. You can park around that corner.”

Tom decided to go back to sulking in silence during the short walk through the front door, up the stairs, and finally through the door of Hallie's flat on the second floor.

“Hallie? Is that you, cupcake?”

“Yes, Mom, I'm home.”

A cheerful looking woman got up from the couch and turned off the television. Tom thought she looked exactly like an older version of Hallie, only a bit shorter. And with glasses.

“Ah, you must be Tom! Nice to meet you, I’m Lorraine Harrison” she said, offering him a firm handshake. “Sorry I didn't drop by the restaurant to meet you sooner, but I was a little busy with... with a thing that I'm sure Hallie will tell you in a moment.”

“That's why I asked him here, Mom. To talk.”

Lorraine exchanged a knowing glance with her daughter, a glance that left Tom even more puzzled than before.

“Well, in that case I'm going to the kitchen to have a cuppa. The living room is all yours.”

Hallie led a very suspicious Tom to the living room and asked him to sit down. He did, looking around him as if he was expecting some kind of nasty surprise to jump at his face in any moment.

“Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Am I going to need one?”

“Probably.”

He made an affirmative sign, and Hallie walked to the dining room table, where someone –probably Lorraine and her motherly powers of precognition– had set a bottle of chilled Sauvignon Blanc and two glasses. She offered one to Tom, and remained standing in front of him.

“Look, I'm not usually a person who shares all her secrets, but...” she paused. “What I mean is that there's something I should have told you when we met, but it was...”

Another pause. Despite Tom's resentment, it was actually painful for him to see Hallie struggle like that. He took a sip of his wine; _very nice, not expensive but good vintage_ , whispered his restaurant-trained mind.

“Christ, Hallie, you look like you're going to confess a crime”, he blurted. “I don't mind hiring felons, you know. One of our line cooks stole a car when he was sixteen, and that didn't keep me from giving him a job.”

“No, it's not that.” Hallie blushed and started pacing up and down the room. “It's just... a long story.”

“I have all the time in the world. Or at least until I have to open the restaurant tomorrow.”

She took a deep breath and almost emptied her glass of wine. “Okay. As you know, my family moved from here to California when I was a toddler. My Dad owned a small agricultural supplies company, that now belongs to my older brother. Eight years ago, I was starting my second year at UCLA, when–”

“Mommy, can you come say goodnight to Stuart?”

There was a boy standing at the door; a sleepy little boy with blond straw-like hair, wearing a Lighting McQueen pyjamas, and holding a Minion plush almost as big as him. With the corner of his eye, Tom looked at Hallie. She was paralyzed, all the blood having escaped from her face, so he tried to react in the less awkward way he could think of.

“Hello, mate! I'm Tom.” He extended a hand towards the kid, who shook it with enthusiasm.

“Hi Tom, I'm Max. Hey, my best friend at school also calls me _mate_! Is it an England thing?”

“You’re absolutely right, it’s an England thing”, Tom said with a very serious face. “It's what we call our best friends here.”

“Are you Mom's chef boss? She says you make the best food in the world!”

Hallie finally came out of her stupor with a shy laugh. She crouched beside the boy and hugged him.

 “Oh, Max... What are you doing up, pumpkin?”

“I heard the door and I wanted to say goodnight. Is it very late?”

“Very very late. All the other children in London are in bed, you're the only one awake. Aren't you sleepy?”

“Yes...” as if choreographed, a giant yawn followed the word. “Yes, I think I'm going back to bed now. Goodnight, Chef Tom.”

“Goodnight, buddy.”

Hallie picked up the dozing child with one arm and Stuart the minion with the other. “I'll be right back”, she said before disappearing into one of the doors.

During the following moments Tom sat motionless, in complete silence, listening to the distant sound of two voices wishing sweet dreams to each other. When Hallie reappeared he pretended to concentrate in his glass of Sauvignon Blanc, still full.

She sat down on the couch beside him, but not too close.

“Well, I guess the explanation I was giving you is kind of moot now. As you may have guessed, Max is my son... And he's the reason why I've been hiding things and acting strangely. Part of the reason, at least.”

A light went up in Tom’s mind. “Hallie, are you trying to tell me that you’re married?”

“Of course not! I would never have gone out to dinner with you if I was married.”

“Trouble with your ex?”

“I don’t have an ex”, she said in a low, breathy voice. “I’ve never been married, Tom.”

Tom closed his eyes, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. When he opened his eyes again, the black cloud that loomed over him had started to dissipate.

“So… this was your terrible, horrible secret? Many single people have children. And I'm sure Max a handful, but... I like kids. You didn't have to hide that from me.”

“I was scared.” Hallie reached for the bottle of wine, but Tom was faster; he grabbed it first and poured her another glass. “Thanks.”

“Scared of me finding out about Max? I already told you, there's no reason–”

She placed her hand over Tom's for a moment and then drew it back, as if his skin had burned her.

“Tom, this isn't easy for me. I really need you to listen without saying anything for a couple of minutes, because I'm not used to talking about... personal things. Not with anyone outside my family or my closest friends, who are all girls.”

“I'm listening”, he said in the most reassuring tone he could manage.

Hallie repositioned herself on the sofa a couple of times, looking alternatively at Tom and at the wall in front of her.

“Max's father... Dave... was my first serious boyfriend. We started dating on the last year of High School, and we weren't sure what to do with the relationship after that… but then we both ended up in UCLA, so things went on.” She seemed to relax a little, and took off her shoes. “College was a lot of fun at first. I had a lot of friends, a popular boyfriend, I was in a sorority... I was going to get my BA in World Arts and Culture, and I loved it. I guess I wasn’t the most brilliant student, but I did well enough in class. And then, just at the start of my sophomore year... I found out I was pregnant.”

“Did you have a fight? Did he leave you?” Tom blurted without thinking. “Sorry, I just... sorry. No more interruptions.”

“No, he didn't leave me”, she continued in a soft, sad voice. “He said he would do the right thing... his parents were very religious. Episcopalian. And as soon as they knew what happened they started planning our wedding. Quickly, before it started to show, because... you know. The scandal.”

She left the empty glass of wine aside, and held her knees to her chest.  

“My parents told us to wait, to be sure of our decision, to see what happened with the way Dave and I felt about everything after the baby had been born. Mom was very insistent about that, she said we were too young and life was too complicated to throw our education aside and start playing house. But Dave's parents wouldn't even hear about that, and we were in love... or, at least, the kind of love you're in when you're nineteen and you haven't experienced real life before. Dave started to work with his father at a real estate company; he came to see me every morning before going to work. My future mother-in-law let me borrow her wedding dress. She arranged all of it: the church, the flowers, the music... I don't remember much of the preparations, everybody told me I had to rest and take care of the baby so I wasn’t allowed to help much.”

Hallie's gaze was fixed on the wall now, and her voice was almost inaudible.

Tom opened his mouth to speak again and then he remembered in the nick of time that he wasn't supposed to; he stopped fidgeting with his wine glass and moved his hand towards Hallie, just up to the point where only one of his fingers was touching one of hers. She looked at him again with a sad smile.

“Two weeks before the wedding I had my bachelorette party. Nothing crazy, not in my state, just me and a few friends. My Mom had the idea of making it British themed, and we had this afternoon party with tea and crumpets, and little Union Flags on the tables, all very Victorian; all my friends loved it.” She ran a hand through her hair, undoing several strands of her already messy ponytail. “Dave and his friends went out, of course. To a… a strip club. Everybody knew they were going there, after all it was his bachelor party. They spent the night dancing with the girls there... and drinking.”

A light went off in Tom’s head. He saw the painful truth coming from afar, digging its way out of Hallie's memories before showing its ugly face in the present.

“They waited until I woke up the next day, because they didn't want me to get upset at five in the morning. I remember my parents coming to my room... it's strange, the things one remembers. My Mom had a cup of tea in her hands, a porcelain cup with pink flowers painted on it. And Dad hadn't shaved. He was such a proper gentleman, I knew something was wrong the moment I saw he hadn't shaved. But I don't remember which one of them said that there had been an accident, that Dave wasn't coming to see me that morning... that Dave was dead.”

Tom had heard enough. He crossed the small distance between him and Hallie and held her hand, delicately. He looked at her face expecting tears, but her eyes were dry.

“I’m sure you loved him very much.”

“I was completely infatuated with him, and losing him was the worst thing that had happened in my life. Suddenly I was a college drop-out, alone, terrified of giving birth, afraid of raising a baby without a father… I think I managed to survive that year thanks to my parents. I don’t know what I’d have done without them.” She looked at Tom again, at his clear blue eyes and his worried gaze. “I’ve been awkward around men since then. We should have had this conversation before our date, Tom, and I’m so sorry I freaked out. I was so scared!”

“Of me finding out about Max?”

“Not only that. I already told you Max's father was my first boyfriend. Then after him I had a small baby and of course I couldn't go around dating. When Max was four my Dad got sick… when he died, I had to lend a hand in the family business and I didn't have a lot of time for anything. And then I had the silly idea of going on Masterchef, and with all the fuss of the contest, the win, the promotion, the cookbook...”

“Yes?”

“Tom, what I’m trying to tell you is that you're the first man I've dated in eight years. Which, counting Max's father, makes you the second guy I've dated in my whole life.”

Tom froze for a moment, and then hid his face in his hands. “Oh, bollocks. I scared you.”

“Just a little.”

“I'm a sodding brute.”

“No! You were just... Enthusiastic, I guess. And I was too confused to tell you that I needed to go a little slower.”

He nodded in silence and wrapped his hand around hers. They sat like that for a moment, until a sudden noise coming from the kitchen made them jump.

“Do you think your mother's listening?”

“Of course she's listening! She's been in there for fifteen minutes. How long does it take to make a cup of tea?” Hallie laughed. “Mom, please come out and stop eavesdropping!”

Lorraine came out of the kitchen, holding a nearly empty cup of tea and a sugar biscuit. “Well, did you fix it?” she asked, staring intently at Tom and Hallie.

“Yes, ma'am. All fixed.”

“Good. I was getting bored to death in there, but I didn't want to interrupt your little conversation. And now that I’m sure there won’t be another World War in my living room, this old lady needs to go to bed.” She finished the biscuit, left the cup on the table and hugged her daughter. “Sleep well, cupcake. Goodnight, Chef Hiddleston.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Harrison. Pleased to meet you.”

After Lorraine left they both stood in the middle of the living room, too tired to say anything, until Tom reacted.

“I don’t mean to sound rude, but you’re going to fall asleep standing up.”

Hallie offered him a tired smile. “Well, it has been a tough day. For both of us.”

Tom threw his arms around her, enclosing her in a tight embrace. “As much as I like doing this, I really need to go and let you sleep. Or tomorrow we’ll fall asleep in the kitchen.”

“And Luke will scream at us.”

“Luke was very close to having an aneurysm this morning…” Tom observed. “I think I owe him an apology. And another one to you, for behaving like an arse all day. I'm really sorry.”

“It’s fine, Tom. I’m sorry too, for not being honest with you earlier. I promise, no more hiding things.”

“And I promise to take things slow. I’m also out of practice doing that, so we can find our ideal speed together”, he said with a wink.

“I like the sound of that”, Hallie answered. “I guess for tonight we can start with something small. Like… one kiss?”

“Only one, Chef Harrison? It will have to be one hell of a kiss.”

“That’s up to you, Chef Hiddleston. Remember that I’m a silly sorority girl with only one boyfriend on my record who knows absolutely nothing about these things.”

Tom entwined one of his hands in Hallie’s hair, slowly stroking her cheek with his thumb. She smelled like red wine and powdered sugar.

“You keep getting it wrong, Chef Harrison. Wrong in two counts.” His breath ghosted on her cheek, and she shivered. “Number one, you’re not a silly girl. I don’t think you’ve ever been a silly girl.”

He pulled her even closer to him and brushed his lips with hers, slowly, giving her space to respond. And she did, leaning eagerly into him and into the caress of his mouth.

“And… and number two?” she said, feebly, once the kiss was over.

“Well… I think your count of boyfriends has gone up. By one.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a new chapter! And the resolution of our little conflict... for now. Don't worry, dear readers, there's still a bump in the road or two for Tom and Hallie before the story ends. Thanks for sticking up with me and with this story. You're amazing.  
> Please tell me what you think of the chapter. I always love to hear your opinions!


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